


And The Tag Read Simply: 'Pretty'

by Funkspiel



Series: Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme Fills [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Animal Ears, Animal Traits, Bondage, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Dubious Consent, Gramander, M/M, Master/Pet, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Disintegration, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pet Play, Slow Burn, Someone Save Percival Graves, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, You Have Been Warned, attempted suicide, grindelgraves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 82,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9306503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Words of comfort and affirmation bubbled to his tongue – He’s caught, we have him. Don’t worry. He’s at MACUSA, he’ll never hurt you again. But one look, and Newt realized that the context of Graves’ question was not 'please say he’s not here.' It was 'please say he’s coming home soon.'“He’s… away,” Newt said lamely, eyes flickering to glance at Graves now that the man felt confident enough to speak with him. Graves was leaning far enough forward now that his shoulders were visible, pale and naked. Newt felt his cheeks begin to burn at the implication, and even more so when he caught sight of the thick leather collar that hung snuggly around Graves’ throat – Grindelwald’s symbol hanging delicately next to a small gold tag that read simply: ‘Pretty’.FANTASTIC BEASTS KINK MEME FILLGrindelwald is captured, they track down Graves, but instead of finding a locked up and tortured Graves they find Graves naked and in a collar, napping on a soft bed without a hint of recognition in his eyes. Turns out Grindelwald messed with Graves' mind, removed all his memories and made him believe that he's Grindelwald's pet.





	1. Finding Mr. Graves

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [名牌上直白的写着：“Pretty”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548580) by [annebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebaby/pseuds/annebaby)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt at the bottom.

Newt wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be on an ocean charter halfway across the Atlantic by now. But yet, somehow he still found himself in New York – well, not _somehow_. He knew exactly how. Because Tina had asked him, that’s how. Painfully worried and nearly frantic and wholly desperate, she had come to him just as he was about to board the boat; and what should have been a wistful goodbye between newfound friends turned into a sad affair indeed. Just sad in a nature wholly different than what he had been anticipating.

_It was raining, but Tina had an umbrella. So when he noticed that her face was wet, his stomach had lurched with the understanding that something was wrong – and he could tell from her expression that it was not because she would miss him, although she would._

_“Newt,” she gasped, out of breath from trying to catch him before he boarded. “I need your help.”_

_“Oh- o-of course,” he stammered, blinking rapidly as he tried to keep up with this sudden twist in reality. “What do you need?”_

_“It’s Graves,” she had said, and when she looked up at him, Newt felt his stomach sink even further. “We found him. He’s… he’s not well.”_

_“I imagine not,” Newt had said before he could catch himself, and flinched when he saw the way it hurt Tina. “I apologize… How can I help?”_

_“I don’t know,” she whispered, “but I can’t think of anyone else who can.”_

That was how he found himself at the doorstep of one Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and former prisoner of the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. It was a nice building that Graves lived in. His neighbors seemed kind enough, although completely oblivious to the dark happenings that had been occurring in his flat for these many months. Which was sad in its own right, Newt imagined. He shuddered to think of a world in which he could be replaced and no one would notice. His heart stung fiercely when he wondered if his creatures would know the difference. He hoped they would.

But he promptly closed the door on that thought before it could overwhelm him. There was a task to be done. What it was, he wasn’t sure… but he would try and help all the same.

“It took a lot longer than we would’ve liked to track him down,” Tina said, staring at the door leading to Graves’ flat with a distant, hurt look to her eyes. Guilt, Newt realized. Guilt hung like a heavy blanket over the usual sparkle he had become accustomed to seeing from Tina. Dark and smothering.

“Whatever happened… it was not your fault. You know that, right?”

Tina took a deep, shaky breath and looked at him with wet eyes. “I know. It’s just… If we had just…”

_If we had just noticed, maybe things would be different._

Whatever had happened, whatever was holding Tina back from opening the door... It was bad. Very bad.

“Tina,” he said gently, grabbing her gaze without actually holding it himself. “What happened to Mr. Graves?”

Tina swallowed with a dry, audible click before finally reaching for the door knob and twirling her wand with a deft little spell to unlock it. “I think it’s best if you see for yourself.”

The moment the door opened, Newt felt it. A thick aura of magic both past and present, hanging thick on the air like a heady gout of smelly perfume. It was thick and dark and pungent in a way that made it hard to think, and even as a man not extremely skilled in the art of magic of the mind, he knew instantly what would cause such a vivid and overwhelming mark. Dark magic. Old magic. Grindelwald.

He gagged and raised his sleeve to his nose and mouth to mask himself from some of it. His eyes stung. A quick glance to Tina confirmed that she was not fairing much better. Her hands were trembling.

“This way,” she said after a moment.

Newt followed her through the quaint flat. It was a nice flat. Sparsely decorated, but richly and deliberately so. It matched Graves, or at least, the image of Graves that Grindelwald had stolen. He followed her down a hallway to a door that had a rather cold looking Auror standing guard before it. He seemed tired down to his very bones, face creased in places no man his age had a right to be creasing in already. Whatever had happened to Mr. Graves, his team was taking it very hardly.

“Some did notice,” she said finally, startling Newt.

“Excuse me?”

“Some of us did notice. A clerk. Two of the senior Aurors. His secretary… Grindelwald manipulated their memories once he found out. Our medical staff found scarring in their minds. Nothing too severe. Just enough to dissuade them from noticing anything else,” she said, stopping. “I know it may not look it, based off your experience from the past few days, but… Director Graves was – _is_ a good man. He was well respected on the team. Now that Grindelwald is gone and the team is back to themselves, well…”

“President Picquery should have fucking _murdered_ that demented bastard,” the Auror outside the door suddenly spat, his mouth twisted with hate – all teeth and fury.

Tina looked at him with strange eyes and said, “Justice must be upheld. That’s what Director Graves would want.”

“Justice ain’t going to fix him.”

That drew Newt’s attention. He looked at the door and noticed for the first time the small sigil that had been carved into its wood, old and powerful. A locking charm, long since dead. Newt frowned and pointed at it.

“Grindelwald?”

The Auror looked over his shoulder and scowled when he noticed what Newt was pointing at.

“Yeah,” he said, turning away. “Best as we can tell, he used it before,” he swallowed, “Before he _changed_ him. The Director must’ve been one surly prisoner, it’s a powerful charm.” The little nod he gave at that was a proud one. “Must’ve gave Grindelwald hell.”

“I’m sure he did,” Newt said softly, his mind on other things – namely, what he’d find behind the door. A thick, cold dread was beginning to slide down his spine. He had a bad feeling. A familiar feeling. “May I?”

The Auror gave him an assessing look, but Tina stepped forward.

“I think he can help,” she said. Newt was beginning to think that his presence wasn’t strictly sanctioned. But whatever was wrong must have outweighed that, because the Auror gave him a small nod and moved to open the door for them.

“Just… be careful.”

Newt blinked, but walked in all the same.

The aura was worse here, thick and clingy and greasy like slime. He could feel it on his skin, pressing in on him; overbearing and disgusting and sick. He shuddered.

The room, however, was a normal bedroom. It contained nice, plush carpets and bookshelves and a night stand. There were trinkets and a mirror. A painting charmed with subtle movement; wolves stalking beautifully through snowy woods. A closet of immaculate clothing, and finally, a lush four poster bed – and at its end on the floor, a large pillow oddly reminiscent of a dog’s bed beside two upturned gold bowl. A puddle was slowly leaking from beneath it. Water.

Newt almost thought the room to be empty and nearly looked at Tina to ask why they were there when a rattle and a soft whine emitted from the closet. There he saw the clothing sway.

He took a step forward, but stopped when that whine turned into a rumbling growl. Tina’s fingers brushed his forearm.

“He... He’s frightened. Nothing we say helps. He… He _bit_ the last Auror that tried to grab him. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, he just… He’s confused,” she trailed off, but Newt suddenly understood why Tina had thought of him.

“I see,” Newt said, then reached for a confident smile – if only to comfort her. “I understand. Let me see what I can do.”

She nodded.

“Stay here.”

A pause and she nodded again, her eyes drawn to the closet once more. “Ok.”

“Ok.”

Silently and slowly, he placed his suitcase by the door and turned to address the closet. He took another step closer, his body automatically hunching and folding in on himself in order to appear smaller and less threatening. He held out his hands, but even so, another growl emerged angrily from the closet. 

A simple warning if Newt had ever heard one. _I’m afraid. I’m confused. Back the fuck off._

“Mr. Graves,” he said softly, soothingly, “We’ve never met but my name is Newt. I’m here to help.”

When Newt finally found Graves’ dark eyes within the shadows of the closet, he averted his gaze – instead watching the concealed figure of the man out of his peripherals – and squatted lower to the floor. But he stopped there, giving the man his space. The growling lessened, but didn’t stop. It did, however, intermittently fall into a whimper. Newt’s lips twitched into a frown, concerned.

“Mr. Graves? Can you hear me?” He asked as he slowly extended one hand out, giving the man the choice to meet him halfway. As he did, he gently extended out a wordless spell. Soothing and gentle, it emitted slowly from his hand and crept across the room until finally – after a minute of silent waiting – Graves shifted in the closet.

Newt saw a glimpse of pale skin and smiled.

“There we are,” he praised softly. Behind him, he heard more than saw the way the Auror at the door clearly disliked how he was treating Graves. But Newt was not the only one to catch onto the man’s agitation, and Graves pale face peeked out hesitantly for no more than a second before he caught the man’s body language and huddled back into the closet once more, snarling.

Newt sighed.

“Tina, could you?” He asked and nodded in the Auror’s direction.

“This is ridiculous,” the Auror spat, eyes flicking to Tina even as she made her way toward him.

“Nothing else has worked,” she said, clearly cross as she guided him from the room.

“You too, Tina,” Newt said, making her stop in the doorway. He clenched down on the guilty feeling that arose when she sent him a hurt look. “He’s afraid. The less people in the room to overwhelm him, the better. Please.”

She glanced to the closet, clearly unwilling to leave.

“But what if he-?”

“I can handle it, Tina,” Newt said gently, giving her a look that said _‘do you remember what I have in my suitcase?’_. “Just keep an eye on the case for me while I help Mr. Graves calm down, if you don’t mind.”

Tina took a deep breath, but finally nodded, grabbed the case, and moved to close the door.

“Don’t,” Newt said, catching her off guard. “He’ll just feel trapped. Leave it open.”

And so she did, and disappeared down the hallway with his case.

“Better?” He asked the closet.

And those curious eyes were back, watching him. Growling, but softly.

“I’m sorry if they scared you,” Newt said. “They’re just worried. They’ve missed you.”

A whine.

“It’s alright,” he said and began to extend his spell again, gently trying to soothe the man. “I won’t hurt you.”

The clothing shifted and out peeked a familiar face – clean shaven, surprisingly. A messy yet silky fringe of hair trembling in front of dark, simple eyes. Graves looked from Newt to the door and back again, as if assessing an escape. He looked younger than the man Newt had fought in the subway tunnels mere days ago. He wondered if it was the eyes.

“Where?” Graves asked, startling Newt.

“We’re in your flat,” he said.

Graves shook his head and furrowed his brow, searching for the words.

“Master didn’t come home. Where?”

Newt felt his stomach _twist_. He opened his mouth, but didn’t really know what to say. He was suddenly fiercely glad Tina had left the room.

“You mean Grindelwald?”

Graves narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Did he not recognize the name?

Words of comfort and affirmation bubbled to his tongue – _He’s caught, we have him. Don’t worry. He’s at MACUSA, he’ll never hurt you again._

But one look and Newt realized that the context of Graves’ question was not _please say he’s not here._ It was _please say he’s coming home soon._

“He’s… away,” Newt said lamely, eyes flickering to glance at Graves now that the man felt confident enough to speak with him. Graves was leaning far enough forward now that his shoulders were visible, pale and naked. Newt felt his cheeks begin to burn at the implication, and even more so when he caught sight of the thick leather collar that hung snuggly around Graves’ throat – Grindelwald’s symbol hanging delicately next to a small gold tag that read simply: ‘ _Pretty’._

Newt grimaced, but quickly shoved the negative body language down.

“Away,” Graves said, eyes distant as he looked at the door. His face crumbled slowly and he began to back himself into the closet again.

“No,” Newt said a little too quickly, making Graves flinch. He instantly smoothed out his voice into a calm, hushed tone and said, “It’s okay. Grindel—your master asked for me to watch over you while he’s gone. Would you like that?”

Graves narrowed his eyes, but clearly didn’t know what to do with that information. He whined, at war with himself about something, before finally looking at Newt with large brown eyes. So strange on a face that had sentenced him to execution mere days ago.

“You’ll touch?”

 _Touch?_ Newt tried to link the implication to whatever Graves was really asking for, but shuddered at the thought of… certain avenues.

“I… I can,” he said, reaching his hand out again. “If you come out.”

When Graves finally came out, it was on all fours – his hands curled up like paws as he hesitantly crawled out of the closet, revealing more and more of his lithe and _very naked_ form. He was hairless, although Newt couldn’t tell if that was from magic or grooming. His skin was milk white from lack of sunlight, and it contrasted so prettily against the raven’s black of his hair. With a twist of disgust for having thought it himself, Newt suddenly understood why the tag on his neck read ‘Pretty’. Regardless, Newt remained completely still, one hand extended, while Graves approached him like a wary dog.

When the man actually reached out to _sniff_ his fingers, Newt felt the gravity of what Grindelwald had done fall down on him. A feeling he did not think could be outdone until a spark of shock exploded into life inside his chest at the sight of two large, wolfish ears suddenly perking up from where they had been laying flat against Graves’ head. Black as they were, Newt had not even noticed them, nor did he think the other Aurors had. But there they were, perked and curious atop Graves’ head and most certainly _not_ adorable.

But the unnatural ears atop his head were not the only things Newt noticed. Graves was in fact flushed in the cheeks, eyes glassy – feverish. Now that he was so close, Newt could practically feel the heat burning off the man like a furnace.

Graves stopped just a hair’s breadth from Newt’s hand and looked up at him.

“You’ll touch?” He asked again.

“Do you want me to?” Newt asked.

“Yes,” Graves said with a whine, but did not move.

And so, Newt slowly reached out – eyes wary of Graves’ body language until finally his was cradling the man’s jaw. He blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding with Graves suddenly pressed into his palm and keened, his arse slightly swaying in what Newt realized would have been a wagging tail, were the man the dog that Grindelwald had made him believe himself to be.

 _Oh Tina,_ he thought, _I’m so sorry._

The tears made sense, now. Asking Newt of all people for help made sense now.

He was pulled from his thoughts when he noticed that those large, brown eyes – once closed from bliss – were staring at him hopefully. Graves took one step forward, then another and whined.

“Oh!” Newt said, catching on and promptly, but slowly, eased himself into a cross-legged position. No sooner than he did he found himself with a tentative lap-full of eager Graves. Newt was torn between the normal ecstatic feeling he always got from charming a scared creature into trusting him and a sick wrench of dread as he slowly began to understand exactly what Grindelwald had done.

Now that he had hands on the man, he could feel the fever burning beneath his skin. It worried him, but even as Newt touched him, he could feel it slowly begin to cool. Something he took note of. He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, with Graves curled into his lap, but it was long enough that he didn’t notice they weren’t alone anymore until Graves suddenly stiffened and began to growl.

Newt looked up to see Tina in the doorway, eyes wide.

And what a sight they must make, Newt realized.

“Y-you,” Tina stuttered, then visibly composed herself with a dry swallow. “You coaxed him out.”

Newt nodded before gently stroking Graves again, compelling magic into the motion to soothe him; warmth and safety and a little bit of compulsion to help him begin to doze. He watched as Graves’ eyelids began to grow heavy, dark lashes fluttering.

“This is Tina,” Newt said, voice thick as he realized his next words would hurt Tina all the more. “She’s also a friend of your Master’s.”

Tina jerked, but didn't correct him.

Graves looked at her, his growling long since ceased, but there was no light of recognition within his sleepy gaze.

“Tina,” he repeated.

“Y-yes, Director,” she said, hopeful at the sound of her own name from his lips. “Do you remember me?”

Graves frowned and looked to Newt.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Graves shook his head, then sought out Newt’s hand once more. Newt kept his gaze pointedly on Graves, unwilling to watch Tina’s face fall.

“That’s okay,” she said. Newt flinched. It was not okay. “Newt, is there… is there anything I can do to help?”

“Perhaps bring my case?”

Tina promptly turned to retrieve it, no doubt left in the other room. Newt had a moment of anger flare at the thought that Tina might have left it unsupervised, if only for a second, but reminded himself of the situation Tina was in. He couldn’t hold a momentary lapse like this against her. Not when he had her very well respected boss curled naked in his lap and falling asleep.

“Oh Mr. Graves,” Newt sighed, his hands deep into Graves’ hair as he pet the man in his lap. “What did he do to you?”

Graves merely burrowed deeper into Newt’s lap and asked, “Who is Mr. Graves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KINK MEME PROMPT:  
> Grindelwald is captured, they track down Graves, but instead of finding a locked up and tortured Graves they find Graves naked and in a collar, napping on a soft bed without a hint of recognition in his eyes when they awaken him. Turns out Grindelwald messed with Graves's mind, removed all his memories and made him believe that he's Grindelwald's pet, utterly devoted to him and his cock, without any cure due to his extensive talent. Grindelwald is smug and Graves gets all whimpery and pleading when he realizes they aren't taking him to his Master and no one knows what to do. Bonus if Graves no longer knows how to handle himself like a proper human, eating out of hands or a bowl, sleeping curled up at the foot of the bed, responding to 'pet' or similar rather than his own name, etc. Praise and toys and the like would be appreciated.
> 
> +Grindelwald charmed Graves somehow so that he starts to get a fever or something if Grindelwald isn't close to him or doesn't fuck him somehow once a day and they have to give in eventually and listen to how happy or loud Graves gets  
> ++Grindelwald thinking about how pretty Credence or Newt would be, learning how to be a good pet at Graves's side  
> +++Grindelwald escapes, and takes his pretty little pet with him


	2. He's Gone

The medical staff did not allow any of them to stay in the room during the evaluation regardless, even when Newt tried to argue that he might be a presence of comfort for the man. Instead, he was forced to wait for hours beside Tina in the waiting room. Nervous even though he didn’t even know the man. Gut clenching even though it was not _his boss_ in that room, undergoing who knew what manner of procedures. Heart thundering even though Percival Graves was not anyone of any significance to him. Not like he was to Tina or any of the other Aurors that had slowly filtered in and out of the waiting room as their schedules could permit.

After what felt like endless waiting, he saw the formidable and familiar figure of the President sweeping into the hospital – flanked on either side by personal guards as she filed past. It wasn’t until she actually _stopped_ , as though surprised, and turned to him that he realized to what extent Tina might have been reaching outside of her jurisdiction in asking him to skip his boat out of America and help. Beside him, Tina stiffened and clenched his forearm.

For a brief, heart pounding moment he thought Picquery might order the Aurors to escort him out of the waiting room and frog march him to his boat or worse – but instead, she merely analyzed him for a good moment with a cool, piercing gaze before sweeping off once more. Newt watched as she was ushered away by a nurse that was talking in quick, concise medical terms before the doors closed behind them both and they were gone. Beside him, he felt Tina relax with a breathy sigh.

“She came herself?” Newt noted with some surprise, brow quirked.

“She and Director Graves had been close, once,” Tina said softly, watching the doors that Picquery had long since passed through. “N-not that they’re on bad terms now, of course, the Director is one of her most trusted people. It’s just that… jobs like theirs don’t give you a lot of time for relationships, I guess…”

Newt blinked and turned to look at the doors himself.

“And not even Madam Picquery noticed?” He asked.

Beside him, Tina startled.

“E-excuse me?”

“Madam Picquery,” Newt said, turning his gaze to her. “She didn’t notice that one of her ‘trusted people’ was being impersonated? An old friend, none the less?”

And although it was not Tina he was accusing, his friend flinched all the same and looked away. When she said nothing in return, Newt let the conversation die. It was another hour before anyone came to speak with them. An Auror, one of the men that had entered with Picquery.

“Auror Goldstein, Mr. Scamander,” he said, “The President would like to have a word with you.”

 

* * *

 

When Newt entered the room, his heart didn’t cease its pounding until he finally caught sight of Graves on the bed, sleeping peacefully. Beside him stood Madam Picquery, her eyes trained on Graves’ slack face as one hand clenched his loose one with a gentleness that looked strange on a woman so terrifying and cold. Newt blinked, then forced down his surprise when her gaze shot up to hold his own. Newt couldn’t help but avert his gaze beneath the heavy weight of her scrutiny, chin tucked away. Instead, he stood in the doorway dumbly, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Mr. Scamander,” Madam Picquery said, “I thought you had promised to be well on your way to Europe by now?”

“Apologies, Madam President,” Tina said suddenly from behind him, making Newt jump as she pressed her way forward to stand in front of him. “That’s my fault. We found Director Graves but considering his… unusual behavior, no one could get close enough to help him. I thought Mr. Scamander might be able to help. Newt’s only here because of me.”

Picquery assessed them quietly, eyes sliding slowly between them before gentling as they lowered back to Graves. She sighed.

“I suppose MACUSA owes you its thanks once again, Mr. Scamander. It is my understanding that without you, Percival’s extraction from his flat would not have gone so smoothly.”

“I- uh… um, yes, well,” Newt stammered, hating the whirlwind of misdirections and conflicting emotions that President was so adept at using to her advantage. Why couldn’t humans be as straight forward as his creatures? “I’m happy I could be of assistance.”

Newt turned his attention back on Graves and realized that despite the amount of time they had been waiting, not much had changed about the man. The black set of wolf-like ears was still perched innocently atop his head, and the collar around his neck had not been removed. Newt frowned, but it appeared Tina beat him to the punch.

“Were they able to help him?” She asked.

Picquery didn’t answer right away, but when she did, her words were shuttered off and rehearsed.

“They did as much as they could, but unfortunately, Grindelwald’s talent for the dark arts is unlike that of any wizard we have ever come against in this time and age…”

“M-Madam President?” Tina asked, waiting for a real answer.

Newt didn’t know what he had expected her to say, but based on his previous encounters with Picquery, he had thought she would go into the state of Graves’ condition with her typical poise and grace and elegant diction. Instead, his stomach dropped and he flinched at her bluntness.

“He’s gone, Ms. Goldstein,” she said instead. “Beyond healing his body, there’s nothing they can do.”

Newt watched as Tina flinched and her eyes fluttered wetly.

“What?” She said, her nervous stammer gone beneath the heady weight of shock. “No. No, that can’t be. There must be something. They can’t possibly be able to decide that after only a few _hours_ of trying. They can’t… _He can’t_ …”

Newt felt his shoulders slump even further as he tucked his chin down to peek at her. He moved to touch her, then thought better of it.

“There’s scarring in his mind the likes of which even our best neural specialists have never seen before,” Picquery said, her hand raising to brush a stray lock of grown out hair from Graves’ forehead – pointedly avoiding his ears. “They said it’s a miracle that he’s not vegetative; that he can even function at all is astounding.”

Newt saw Tina’s lip trembled before she visibly steeled herself.

“Just because they haven’t seen anything like it doesn’t mean they can give up – “

“ – He went into cardiac arrest when they attempted to remove the collar from his neck, Ms. Goldstein,” Picquery cut her off coolly, and Newt watched as the tall woman moved from the bed to approach Tina with something bordering anger in her steps. “If he goes so much as thirty minutes without physical contact, his body temperature begins to rise. All memories of his past self, all the way up to his _own name_ , have been removed. Not obliterated. _Removed._ Forcefully. Painfully. Non-consensually. Potentially even stored. He has no recollection of magic or how to use it. And whatever Grindelwald did to transfigure animal ears onto him, we have yet to find a way to remove them without killing Percival from the pain of the procedure. And that’s only what they were able to readily identify. Do not presume to walk into this room and suggest that my medical staff did not try their best, Ms. Goldstein, when it is the people that worked with him day in and day out that truly failed him. People like you… and like me.”

And finally, a tear dropped from Tina’s face and hit the floor with a loud “plap”.

“Madam President, with all due respect, Tina has been trying her best –“ Newt started, but stopped when Picquery turned to him.

“That is precisely my point, Mr. Scamander,” she said, suddenly looking exhausted. “ _Everyone_ is trying their best. Pointing fingers won’t help him now. There’s only one thing we can do.”

“Sir?” Tina asked, eyes wet but steady when they lifted to catch Picquery’s gaze.

“If Grindelwald has no qualms with forcefully pulling memories from our people, then it seems only right we return the favor. Tell him he has one more chance to cooperate, Ms. Goldstein. Should he neglect to take our offer, there are other ways to get the information we want now that we know what to look for. Let him know as much.”

“Yes, sir,” Tina said, her back straighter now that she realized that the President had not in fact given up on their Director of Magical Security. Seeing the change in her demeanor return to its former determination put Newt at ease, and he just barely resisted letting out a small smile when Picquery suddenly turned to him.

“Mr. Scamander.”

“M-Madam President?”

“While I know we are already indebted to you, I fear I must ask you for yet another favor.”

Newt blinked.

“I was told that you are the one who was able to calm down Percival. With that in mind, MACUSA would like to leave him in your care until such a time that we can either help Director Graves return to his former self,” she said, then paused, her lips a thin line of distaste. “Or until we can make the appropriate arrangements to accommodate his new life, should it come to that.”

“With me?” Newt asked, surprised as his gaze darted between Tina and Picquery.

“Yes. You appear to be the most capable of caring for him in his current state of mind. We would, of course, see to it that you’re given the appropriate stipend to be able to care for both yourself and Percival while you’re helping us. And during this time the contents of your… _suitcase_ … would be overlooked.”

“I, uh… yes, of course. I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Excellent. The staff will meet with you shortly to run you through some of the medication that they would like to put Percival on. Nothing elaborate; potions to help him gain weight or assist with sleeping, things of that nature,” she said. “I’ll leave you both to it. Goldstein, check in with me as soon as you’ve spoken with Grindelwald. I want to be kept abreast your progress as much as possible. Mr. Scamander, a daily status report sent to me personally would be appreciated.”

And just as she was about to sweep out of the room, she paused beside Newt and said, “Do keep good care of him, Mr. Scamander. Despite what you’ve seen from Grindelwald, Percival Graves is a good man. He deserves better than this.”

“Oh – of course, yes. I will,” Newt stammered, and with one last searching look, Picquery filed past him – her guards hot on her heels.

Instantly, Newt turned to Tina. “Tina, are you -?”

“Y-yes, Newt,” she said with a nod and a fierce set to her jaw. Her eyes were more alight than Newt had seen for hours, and he almost let out a sigh of relief at the sight of that. “I should go get things started. You will let me know the moment anything changes… for better or worse… won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, hands brushing her arm gently. “Of course I will.”

She nodded.

“Thank you, Newt.”

And then she was gone, too, and Newt was left alone with the empty shell of a man that Grindelwald had left behind – ears twitching in his sleep. Newt sighed.

For better or for worse, he had another creature to care for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO MUCH for all the support and kind words, I can't believe this fic has built so much traction and I can't tell you how flattered I am. Ya'll made my day, I can't even. Short update, but hopefully another to come shortly tonight. With more Percy.


	3. The First Day

He managed to move Graves back into the case before he woke – sparing the man the anxiety of waking up inside the cold, sterile walls of the hospital. Instead, he woke inside Newt’s case, currently stored in the Goldstein sisters’ apartment. He woke in Newt’s cozy little shed, nested into a twist of blankets that he had managed to kick up in his sleep, hair mused into all sort of directions, blinking sleepily – making Newt’s heart twist despite itself. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time not to get attached, because this wasn’t Graves, not the _real Graves._ And it would be a disservice to both himself and to the man they were trying to save to get attached to something temporary.

Newt tried to ignore the confused way that Graves lifted his arms, baffled by the loose dress sleeves that hung from them – the shirt too large on his malnourished frame. While Newt’s shirts _shouldn’t_ have fit on a man as broad as Graves, it _did_. In fact, they were slightly _loose_. And thanks to the few inches of height he had on the man, slightly too long in the waist and arms, too. But Graves’ confusion seemed to quickly pass, replaced instead by: _this isn’t home._

There was a moment where Newt was afraid the man might panic. He could see the way Graves’ pupils dilated, trying to assess his surroundings and how he got there. His ears were tucked back, and he ever so slightly began to crouch closer to the bed and back into his nest of blankets when his eyes suddenly fell upon Newt and he _smiled,_ ears perked.

“You!” He said cheerfully, wiggling ever so slightly, and Newt tried to turn his sad grimace into a smile for the man.

“Hey there,” he said back.

“You’re not gone!”

Newt let out a soft huff of a chuckle.

“Right-o, still here.”

“Master’s here?”

Newt stuttered for words for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh, afraid not. He’s still away,” and when Graves face fell – _Merlin, this was so fucked up_ – Newt raised his hands to stall his attention, “But I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep you company until he’s back.”

The fact that he wouldn’t be coming back would have to be a conversation for another time. Regardless, that did seem to brighten Graves’ mood somewhat. He looked up at the stairs, as if hoping Newt were wrong, before glancing back at him.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Newt repeated with a smile before slapping his hands onto his knees and rising. He approached the bed slowly but confidently, wary of any change in Graves’ body language, and reached to gently brush his fingertips across the man’s brow – brushing hair back while simultaneously checking the man’s temperature. So far, he’d been good about occasionally providing contact to Graves’ body to keep the heat at bay; a gentle cupping of the back of his neck, a soft touch to his brow, a gentle carding through his hair. Beneath his fingers, the man’s skin was still blessedly cool. “I have breakfast ready. Would you like that?”

He tried to ignore the gut deep instinct telling him ‘this is wrong, this is unnatural, humans don’t _act this way_ ,’ when Graves chased the comfort of his hand, seeking more pets. He tried instead to think of Graves as he would any living soul he would help, and if this was what the man needed – he’d provide it. He chuckled very lightly, if albeit somewhat uneasily, when Graves purred happily beneath his hand the moment he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Breakfast?” And the curiosity in the man’s tone made Newt’s fingers pause in their stroking.

“Yes, breakfast. You know, food?”

“Food,” Graves said. Then something lit up in his face. “Food today?”

Newt’s stomach twisted, and suddenly he found himself fiercely hoping that one of the Auror’s would snap. That they’d hurt Grindelwald. The man could do with a few less fingers. Or teeth.

“Yes,” he said calmly regardless, his tone soft and calming as he gently urged Graves up with his hands. “Let’s go, off to the table.”

The medics were still not sure how far the damage to Graves’ psyche extended, but Newt couldn’t help but feel a little tug of positivity, knowing that the man seemed to understand his mother tongue well enough despite the devolution of his own ability to communicate back. So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice until he was bringing the bowl of broth to the table – something thin and filling and easy on the stomach for someone as starved as Graves was – that the man in question was not in fact seated in a chair as he should be, but sitting rather patiently on the floor beside the chair at the head of the table. Newt felt a cold chill sweep down his spine.

“M-Mr. Graves?”

And when he didn’t answer, Newt felt his hands trembling, knowing what he’d have to say instead. The tags on Graves’ collar flashed in his mind. He grimaced.

“Pr-,” the name tasted like bile on his tongue, and he grimaced. “Pretty?”

Graves twisted quickly to look at him, ears perked and eyes eager.

“What are you doing?”

Graves blinked, as though trying to make sure himself that he was doing the right thing, before nodding to himself once and saying, “Being good.”

_Being good._

Newt swallowed, the desire to vomit suddenly high in his throat.

“I-I can see that,” he stammered as he approached the table and gently set down the soup before his angry trembling split it everywhere. Both hands braced on the table, he took a breath and forced calmness into his voice. “Did Grindel– did your Master teach you that?”

“Yes,” Graves said with the determined confidence of a child repeating something they learned at school.

“I see… It’s a rule of his, is it?” Newt asked. And when Graves tilted his head, overly large ears quirked, Newt felt a little of his anger melt away. He cast a small spell over the bowl to keep it warm and said, “You don’t have to do that when you’re with me, Graves.”

Something indistinct flickered in Graves’ eyes, gone before Newt could so much as focus on it. The poor man scowled, confused.

“I don’t understand.”

“You can sit on the chair when you’re with me.”

Graves’ eyes widened and he flinched, his body suddenly leaning away from Newt without actually moving from his spot on the floor.

“No,” he whimpered, trembling ever so slightly.

“No?” Newt asked, concerned, and slowly bent down to crouch at Graves’ level, the chair between them.

“You’re tea– test–,” he stumbled for the word, brows drawn tight in earnest concentration. The longer it took to grasp the word, the more frustrated he appeared to grow – an expression beyond that of an eager puppy slowly evolving on his face. Newt found himself leaning forward, hoping. _Hoping._ “Tr– Tricking me.”

“Tricking you,” Newt said slowly, trying not to let his disappointment show as that little flicker of something higher began to fade away, lost beneath the earnest brown eyes of Grindelwald’s compulsion once more. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m… I’m a bit of a softy, I suppose you could say. I don’t have so many rules. If you want to sit at the table, I won’t tell if you won’t. It can be our secret.”

But Graves shook his head resolutely, his eyes slowly creasing at the corners as if in pain. Newt paused.

“Are you okay?”

Graves flinched and rubbed at his eyes. He nodded, no doubt in Newt’s mind because _someone_ had likely told him that ‘ _good boys don’t feel pain_ ’. Newt tried to ignore the way the man jumped when he slid his fingers consolingly back into his hair, brushing gently past the ears, before finally cupping the back of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Newt said even though, _no, it was most certainly not okay_ – and once they got what they needed from Grindelwald, he’d be _visiting_ the man himself for sure. “It’s okay. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. We can try again another day.”

Graves nodded, but didn’t look up again – eyes trained on the floor as Newt pushed the seat between them away, grabbed the bowl from the table and joined him on the floor. When he had finally settled down beside Graves, he looked up to see wide brown eyes staring at him, shocked.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asked.

“Y-you’re… you…”

And then, _~~adorably~~_ , Graves tilted his head and keened; ears back, confused, unsure of where to go that would be below Newt.

“It’s alright,” Newt said pleasantly as he dipped one finger into the broth to check its temperature. “You’re okay. I just want to sit with you is all. You’re good.”

Graves looked at him for direction, and Newt felt his fingers tighten around the bowl.

“I’m good?”

“Yes,” he said, although it made his insides hollow to meet Graves within the limitations of a madman’s whims or limitations. “Yes, very good.”

He handed the bowl to Graves, then. And when the man took it, placed it on the floor and finally contorted his body so that he might bend down to drink from it like a dog, Newt bit his lip – _hard_ – and said nothing. It would be a lesson for another day, for when Grindelwald’s “rules” had lessened and blurred within Graves’ mind. When his fear was not so tightly wound within the madman’s design.

Even so, he had to avert his gaze and dig his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to keep the burning from evolving into tears. He desperately wished to plug his ears, lest he continue to hear the gentle lapping of a _man_ drinking soup from a bowl with nothing but the small curve of his own tongue. The sound of the spoon clinking around the edges of the bowl as it was pushed around uselessly by Graves’ face made Newt flinch.

_Merlin, what had Grindelwald done to him?_

And just when Newt thought it couldn’t get worse, Graves must have finished. Because then, he gently moved the bowl aside to scan the floor – for what, Newt couldn’t tell – until suddenly, the man leaned down and licked a tiny puddle from the floor. Immediately Newt leapt forward, hands out and reaching for Graves. And Graves flinched, eyes wide, the moment Newt seized him by his shoulders. He ducked his chin, tucked his ears back, averted his gaze and whined.

“Don’t,” Newt said, brushing soup-wet bangs back from Graves’ forehead, urging him to look him in the eyes – dipping this way and that until he caught the man’s gaze. “I can make you more, if you’re still hungry! You don’t have to do that.”

“Not hungry…” Graves said.

“What…? Then why?”

“I’ll clean it up,” he said, finally, and Newt’s eyes widened. He imagined Grindelwald forcing Graves’ face to the floor – one large hand wound tight in his hair and a cruel sneer on his lips as he waited for the confused man to lick up his mess. Rage flooded him.

“You don’t need to do that,” Newt said fiercely, staring straight into Graves’ eyes. “Not with me. I spill things all the time, don’t worry. You’re not bad. It was an accident. We can clean it up, just… please. Don’t do that. Not for me.”

“But…” He trailed off, eyes on the tiny splashes that had ended up on the floor – still untouched. And before Graves could so much as lean forward to try and finish what he started, Newt waved his hand and rushed out a soft “ _Scourgify_ ” beneath his breath. Instantly, the tiny mess disappeared.

“See?” He said with a relieved huff, gesturing to the clean floor, “All better. No need to handle it yourself.”

He was afraid that when he looked back at Graves, he’d see the same terrified expression he had received every time he had contradicted one of Grindelwald’s “teachings”. Instead, all he found was wide-eyed wonderment as Graves reached out with long, trembling fingers to touch the floor – finger tips just barely peeking out of too long sleeves.

“How?”

“Magic,” Newt said softly, watching Graves carefully. After a moment of thought, he plucked the spoon from the bowl and held it in the middle of his hand before Graves, “Like this.”

And with another softly muttered spell, he ran a hand over the spoon and willed it into another shape. Before their very eyes, the metal folded in on itself until it no longer resembled a spoon at all, but rather a stem-less flower. Newt wasn’t extremely skilled with wandless magic, but this was something he had practiced many times – transforming mundane things into shiny, more interesting forms. Mostly to occupy his Niffler.

Gently, he deposited the little flower into Graves’ hand and watched as he twisted it around in his hands gently, as though afraid to break it. And then, there it was again – a flash of something in Graves’ eyes. Newt might even call it recognition. It was gone just as quick as before with a soft wince, but he had seen it this time for sure. Newt smiled.

“Did your Master never do things like this?” Newt asked.

Graves shook his head, eyes still stuck on the flower.

Newt felt something like triumph building in his chest; small now, but slowly growing. Grindelwald didn’t use magic in front of Graves. A man _obsessed_ with revealing the existence of magic to the world _didn’t use it in front of Graves._ Surely, there was a reason – and Newt had inkling why.

He tucked that observation away for now, though, and instead rose to his feet and held out a hand to the man on the floor in front of him.

“Come with me,” he said, “There’s something else I’d like to show you. And I wouldn’t mind a little help either, if you’re up to it.”

If magic was what it took to spark recognition in Graves’ eyes, then by Merlin, Newt was going to show him everything magical he could think of – starting with his beasts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't kidding when I said Graves' mind got FUCKED UP.  
> Also, things are going to get more messed up before they get better.  
> Just... FYI


	4. A Simple Thank You Would Suffice

Convincing Graves to put on pants proved to be about as difficult as Newt had expected, and just like most of his interactions with Graves thus far, horribly telling of his time in captivity. The man was all but baffled by having a shirt in the first place, so slipping his starved legs into Newt’s pants only made him frown. Newt had to lay the man back on the little bed as he hefted the pants up his legs, trying to ignore the way they trembled.

“Master doesn’t like for me to wear clothing,” Graves finally mumbled, ears back, worried and whisper soft – afraid to challenge Newt, but afraid to disobey his ‘Master’. Newt’s hands fell still with the pants only halfway up Graves’ thighs and froze there. Newt felt a ball of fire light up in his chest, pulsing fiery hot through his veins, but struggled not to let it show lest Graves think himself in trouble. Instead, he took a deep breath and forced a mask of calm to slide over his face.

“But what do _you_ want, Mr. Graves?” He asked gently.

And when Graves just tilted his head at him so genuinely _baffled_ , ears quirked and a soft whine in his throat, Newt struggled to resist the urge to disapparate to MACUSA headquarters then and there and _light the dark wizard on fire himself_. Instead, he smiled and said, “It’s okay if you don’t know. Why don’t we try it for a day and see what you think?”

“But Mas—“

“Is the one who gave me the clothing,” Newt said.

But when Graves frowned, thick brows drawn together and nose pinched, Newt knew the little lie wouldn’t be enough to console the man. So with a grimace, he swallowed down the bile he felt rise – knowing what he would have to say to make it sound believable based off what he had gathered so far from the man.

“He… he would like for you to wear clothes while he’s away,” Newt said, struggling to smile consolingly, “He doesn’t want anyone else to see you but him.”

Graves’ face lit up with understanding and he nodded, making Newt’s stomach wrench.

It was easier to get the pants on after that. The fact they fit the man only reinforced Newt’s goal to _feed him. A lot_.

But while Newt had succeeded in getting Graves to put on pants, getting the man to walk on two feet proved to be harder. It wasn’t that Grindelwald said he had to, he just simply didn’t understand what Newt was asking of him at all. And so he crawl alongside Newt, his ribs pressed to Newt’s calf the whole way.

Until they went outside of the shed, that was.

The moment he opened the door, he felt Graves go still beside him – skin shivering so harshly that Newt could feel his trembling where he pressed against him. At first, Newt feared Graves thought he had broken another of Grindelwald’s rules; one harsh enough to warrant such a tangible reaction. But as though something suddenly clicked, Graves brought one foot under him, as if to rise, before just barely stopping himself and looking up to Newt instead.

His eyes were wide and awe-filled and so terribly, terribly filled with hope that Newt would have given him anything if it meant that flame wouldn’t be lost from Graves’ eyes.

“Can I?” Graves whispered, just barely getting out the words. His entire body was shivering.

“Of course,” Newt said, even though he didn’t know precisely what he was agreeing to.

And just like that, Graves took off – launching from the foot he had wedged beneath himself and quickly falling into a sprint. And for the first time during his stay with Newt, he was on two legs. He wobbled at first, hands splayed out to balance himself, but Newt couldn’t help the huge grin that split his face as he watched the man quickly pelt through the field that stretched between the enclosures and Newt’s shed. Graves ran in designless patterns, moving far more quickly than a man as starved as he was should have been able to do. It was only when the Director was obviously beginning to tire out that Newt began the trek through the field to meet him, only stopping when he saw Graves clip a rock and tumble gracelessly to the ground with a startled yelp. By the time he had jogged over, however, his worry quickly turned into a smile when he found Graves on his back, eyes closed, enjoying the sunlight – _smiling._

“Are you alright?” Newt asked.

Graves lifted himself up onto his elbows and beamed up at him, a stray straw of grass sticking to the back of one fuzzy black ear.

“Alright?” Graves asked, his chest rising and falling with great, excited gulps. “I _ran_. It’s been so long. Can I do it again?”

“Of course you can,” Newt said, extending a hand to the man. “Whenever you’d like. I was hoping that you might help me with my mooncalves first, however. They’re horribly hungry, I’m sure.”

And when Graves didn’t even think twice about accepting Newt’s hand to be lifted up onto two feet _and stayed there_ , Newt couldn’t help but feel a little blossom of victory bloom in his chest. He steadied the man by the elbow, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall, then asked, “Would you like that?”

Graves blinked at him.

“What’s a mooncalf?”

As it turned out, Graves _loved_ the mooncalves. Newt watched as he buried first his hands, then his face – much to Newt’s amused surprise – into their soft wool. Thankfully, the creatures were so docile and friendly, Newt had nothing to worry about. Their easygoing nature was actually why Newt introduced Graves to this enclosure first. They allowed Graves to pet them and follow them and be up in their space and generally treated the man the way they would an eager dog; tentatively at first, then patiently.

“They’re soft,” Graves said, face buried in the wool of an older, matronly mooncalf as Newt gathered a bucket of food for them.

“Indeed they are, Mr. Graves,” he said, hoping the name would stick when all Graves did was look at him peculiarly, but did not correct him. From his collar, his tags glimmered innocently in the sunlight. “Would you mind coming over here for a moment?”

“Yes!” Graves said and moved to lower himself to all fours, only to stop halfway – as if suddenly realizing that standing on two feet was the most efficient and comfortable way to move. So with his eyes pinned to Newt, waiting to be admonished, he tentatively rose to two feet again. Newt smiled encouringly and held out the bucket to him.

“Take a handful of this and throw it into the air, if you would be so kind.”

Graves looked at him oddly. He stared at the hand that held the bucket out to him, studied it for a moment that lasted so long Newt was afraid he just simply wouldn’t do it, before finally reaching out with noticeably stiff hands and forcing them to curl around the handle like Newt’s was. It was then Newt realized yet another thing that Grindelwald had taken from him. His hands, or at least the knowledge of how to properly use them. In hindsight, he hadn’t seen Graves do anything more with his hands than curiously touch things. Grasping objects, holding things – things like _spoons_ – he had not done. Even with the bowl, he had quickly set it down to the floor to eat from it.

“Good job,” Newt praised him softly, sick to the stomach at having to feed into Grindelwald’s spell, but hoping to help condition Graves out of the perverse behaviors Grindelwald had instilled in him. Graves smiled, reached a hand inside, and gracelessly flung a handful of feed into the air – where it promptly caught itself still midflight and floated just above the mooncalves. Newt watched as Graves’ curious dark eyes widened once again, enraptured as the mooncalves gathered beneath the cloud of food and began to snatch the little morsels from the air.

Gently, Newt took the little bucket from Graves’ hands – startling him.

“Would you like to help me with some of the others?”

Graves wiggled, ears perked, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

Tina tried to swallow down the tightness in her throat, one hand on the door knob of the interrogation cell, her forehead pressed to the coolness of its flat surface. In a moment, she would have to enter the very room she had been sentenced to death in, stand in front of the very man who did the sentencing, and question him. But with a breath, she steeled herself and opened the door – because she owed that much at least to Percival Graves.

She found Grindelwald strapped to a bolted down chair with his back to her and bound by strips of enchanted leathers that crisscrossed and enwrapped him from shoulder to waist and knee to toe – elaborate and glowing with runes. He was still wearing her boss’ clothing, and she couldn’t help but hate him for it. That he left Graves naked while he paraded in the man’s own clothing set a fire to her veins.

Suddenly, the dark wizard bound before her began to chuckle.

“Tina Goldstein,” he drawled, staring straight ahead and unable to see her, and yet _knowing_. “You took your time. A bit rusty from your time off the force?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, closing the door behind her as she quickly crossed the room to stand in front of him.

“Interesting request, given that you no doubt came here to get answers, not silence,” Grindelwald said with a little curl to his lips, eyes glimmering merrily, “But I can do that, if you wish.”

She had meant to go in with a game plan. She had meant to intricately weave her way to her questions and her threats. She had meant to do a lot, but one look at Grindelwald’s smug face and all those plans immediately went out the window. Instead, Tina stood before Grindelwald, urging her own back to perfect straightness even as her fists trembled, and she snarled, “ _What did you do to Director Graves?”_

“Ah,” Grindelwald said, and immediately his playful look fell and something cold and alien flashed across his face for the briefest of moments before that horrible smirk was back. “You found my pet. I do hope you’re treating him properly.”

“P-properly?!” Tina balled his fists even tighter. In her holster, her wand began to burn.

“Yes. I put a lot of work into training him. It’d be a shame for your lot to ruin all my hard work. He’s such a good boy now, after all.”

The skin of Tina’s wand hand _itched_ to strike him down, _to show him pain._ She trembled, but resisted. Grindelwald noticed and passed her a slimy grin.

“Such restraint,” he purred, eyeing her. “Admirable. Did you learn that from him?”

Tina took a deep breath.

“What did you do to him?”

“Well I think that’s rather obvious, don’t you?” Grindelwald said with a mocking look that screamed ‘ _do try harder to keep up, Ms. Goldstein’._ Tina gnashed her teeth and her jaw began to ache. “I helped him accept what he truly is. MACUSA’s little lap dog. Now _my_ little lap dog, and oh, how he loves to dance in my lap.”

Tina could feel the heat that climbed up the back of her neck and knew it was surely red with rage. She wanted so badly to grab her wand. Instead, she slammed both hands on the desk between them and said, “There are other ways for us to get the information we want, Grindelwald. Me politely asking is more a service to the Ministry than anything else. But please do continue to disobey. I personally would love to watch our people pry your memories from your mind as cruelly as you did to Director Graves.”

“Heart of gold Tina Goldstein would dare breach the laws of our lovely society and resort to torture for her own needs?” Grindelwald gasped, eyes twinkling, and Tina felt a familiar fury bubble in her veins at the tone of familiarity with which he spoke in. Another reminder that he had been among them for weeks, _weeks_ , and no one had noticed. That Graves was in the state he was in not only because of Grindelwald, but because all of them were too blind and too susceptible to the man’s mental spell work to notice. If they had, then maybe…

“Maybe you and I aren’t so different after all, hmm?”

“We’re _nothing_ alike,” Tina snarled. “I would never—“

“Capture and bind a man to a chair? Give him minimal food or water for days in order to persuade him to give you the information you seek? To weaken him, make him less likely to run? To store him deep within your stronghold and question him for days on end? To pull memories like teeth?” Grindelwald smiled, as though proud. “Yes, please do tell me how we are so very different.”

“I haven’t twisted your mind to make you believe you’re something that you’re not,” Tina said, her voice gone quiet and cold with barely restrained rage and just the littlest hint of fear – her stomach an icy, heavy weight.

Grindelwald smiled with all his teeth, his eyes crinkling at their corners, and said, “Neither have I.”

“Director Graves _is not a dog_.”

“But isn’t he?” Grindelwald asked. “You see, the attributes had to be there in some capacity or another for the spell to build off of. Qualities like loyalty, protectiveness, selflessness in the face of danger or cruelty. Qualities that our dear director had in spades, if the strength of his transformation is anything to go by. I merely… accentuated what already existed.”

“Tell me how to change him back.”

Grindelwald just smiled at her.

“Answer me!”

“Oh my dear, you don’t think I’d make it that easy, do you?”

Tina straightened herself suddenly and looked down her nose at the man in disdain.

“Then we’re done here.”

“So it would seem. Thank you for the visit, Ms. Goldstein,” Grindelwald said, closing his eyes as if for a pleasant nap in the soft embrace of a mid-summer’s sun rather than the cold, unforgiving bindings of MACUSA witchcraft; obviously dismissing her as though he were still Graves and still her boss.

“Just remember, you brought this upon yourself,” she sneered darkly, moving to exit the room in an angry march.

“Oh, before you go…” Grindelwald drawled, grabbing Tina’s attention before she could finish crossing the room. His tone was nonchalant, but his grin was telling. Tina felt her blood run cold. “Which of you has been attending to my pet’s needs, by the way? His upkeep is a little high maintenance, I’ll admit, but it’s worth it once you have his pert little ass bent over and _keening_ for it. It’s the only thing he’s good for anymore, really—“

**“Stupefy!”**

The spell blasted across the room with far more force than necessary. It slammed into Grindelwald’s prone body so viciously, it left the man’s clothing smoking and instantly, his chin fell to his chest – unconscious. If not for the bolted down chair he was bound to, he no doubt would have hit a wall.

Tina watched his unconscious body for a long time, breathing deeply to calm herself, before finally exiting the room. When she did, she found none other than Madam Picquery on the other side. Tina jerked, surprised – then admonished. She cast her gaze down.

“M-madam President, I apologize, I—“

“Don’t,” she said, her eyes on Grindelwald through the enchanted one-way glass. “I would have done worse.”

Tina blinked, but felt a small bloom of pride and kinship light up in her chest.

“So what do we do now?” She asked, eyes on the president as she coldly studied their prisoner.

“Representatives from the Ministry of Magic will be arriving in two days, per paperwork regulations and procedures, to meet with us about who is to officially try Grindelwald for his crimes. No doubt they will receive that honor… So that is how much time we have.”

“Madam?”

“Call in our best Legilimens, Auror Goldstein. Grindelwald was warned of the consequences of refusing to cooperate,” she said, “I want answers by midnight.”

And with that, she cast one last look to Tina – proud of what she found there – and swept away.

If Grindelwald were anyone else, Tina would almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

Graves loved _all_ the creatures, as it turned out, and Newt couldn’t be any more pleased by that if he tried. Watching the poor man interact with his creatures and forget himself, forget Grindelwald’s disgusting rules – it made Newt hopeful. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched Graves slurp down another bowl of soup; still on the ground, but they’d work on that. The man had smudges of dirt on his clothing and his cheek, of all places, and Newt was struck by how cute the director looked. All innocent brown eyes and big, fluffy ears and absolute eagerness to please.

Merlin, how he wanted to fix him.

It wasn’t long before Graves finished his bowl, content and wiggling as he turned to look at Newt with something close to adoration in his eyes.

“You fed me _twice_ today,” Graves beamed. “Thank you, Ma—“

And then he stopped, his eyes wide and his mouth open ever so slightly. Something blank slid across his gaze and suddenly, his shoulders drooped very gently – his fingers slack around the bowl. Newt felt his heart stutter to a crawl as he lunged from his seat on the edge of the bed to kneel before him. His hands trembled fiercely where they grabbed Graves’ shoulders, and he shook him once – gently.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt called, brushing back his hair, attempting to make eye contact through the man’s distant, blank stare. “ _Mr. Graves?_ Can you hear me? Percival?” His voice cracked. “ _Pretty?”_

Graves remained slack and nonresponsive for a long, heart stopping moment; and just when Newt was about to disapparate to Tina for help, Graves’ gaze suddenly focused on him keenly. Only they weren’t the deep, warm and eager brown Newt had grown familiar with. They were cold and piercing, one dark as night, the other as silver as the moon. Newt shivered.

“Ah, I should have known,” Graves said, the kind tone replaced by a cold and sneering drawl that sent a sheet of cold dread down Newt’s back. “Of course they would leave my pet with _you_.”

“Grindelwald,” Newt said on a breath, shocked. “How?”

Graves’ face twisted into a familiar knowing and malicious grin.

“Because he’s _mine_ , Mr. Scamander. Mine to use, mine to control, mine to break,” and then he sighed, as though remembering something pleasant, and purred, “Mine to _fuck_.”

Newt stood back and drew his wand, trying to steady the slight tremble as he realized that he would hurt no one but Graves by attacking, but hoping his bluff would hold.

It didn’t.

Grindelwald tsked.

“Put down your wand. You and I both know you won’t lay a finger on an innocent creature like our dear _Pretty._ ”

“What did you do?”

“I merely peered into his mind, nothing more. I wanted to make sure my pet was being treated well in my absence,” then he peered away for a moment, as though listening to something, before training his eyes on Newt once more. “Two feedings in one day, my oh my, Mr. Scamander – how you spoil my pet. Quite the treat. I’ll be sure to tell _Pretty_ to thank you properly for your generosity.”

“Let him go,” Newt demanded.

“I’m going,” he said indulgingly. “Do enjoy my pet, Mr. Scamander. He won’t be with you for long.”

And then the mismatched gaze was gone, replaced by confused brown eyes that blinked twice, then focused on him. Recognizing Newt, immediately Graves began to wiggle.

“Mr. Graves, are you alright?” Newt said, rushing down to his knees again to check Graves over.

“Master came!” Graves said excitedly, and when Newt gently pulled at Graves’ eyelids, he found his pupils blown so large they nearly eclipsed the mocha brown of his eyes. Strange. Newt frowned. “He says thank you. He says to say thank you.”

And then there were hands, eager and excited, grabbing Newt’s waist.

“Wha, what?” Was all Newt could manage as Graves suddenly began to crawl into Newt’s lap, pushing him back until Newt was leaning on his elbows – lap filled with the long, wiggling lithe line of Percival Graves’ body. Graves leaned in, their breath mingling, and Newt’s mind blasted itself with shouted messages of ‘ _no, this is wrong, something is wrong!’_

“M-Mr. Graves, are you alright?” Newt stammered. He reached to push the man back by his shoulders, but that only gave Graves the leverage he needed to push the magizoologist the rest of the way down to his back. Newt blinked, ready to roll the man off him, when suddenly Graves _ground down his hips_. Newt let out a sound strangled between a cry of surprise and a moan.

 “No, we can’t—mmph!“

Newt’s words died as a mouthful of eager tongue slipped in to contend with his own, sudden and hot and enthusiastic. Hands, fierce and clenching at his shirt. Hips grinding into his own. When Graves finally came up for air, it was with one last lick across Newt’s open, gasping mouth before licking his own. And then a hand grasped at the crotch of his pants and Newt finally felt something spark in his mind. He _shoved_ just hard enough to scuttle out from beneath Graves and make some space between them. He tried to ignore the way his dick twitched his in trousers, eager to feel that touch again – Graves, however, noticed.

“We can’t do this, Mr. Graves,” Newt stammered, a rosy flush steadily spreading from his cheeks to his chest. “You aren’t yourself, you’re not well!”

Graves wiggled, eyes dark and focused – but listening, eager to please.

“Master said you’d say that,” Graves said, crawling forward with a gentle, enticing sway to his hips as he cornered Newt. “But I have to thank you. I’m a good boy.”

Newt’s shirt was beginning to slide down one of Graves’ lithe shoulders, revealing a stretch of pale, creamy skin that only added to the fire slowly growing in Newt’s lower belly. Newt whined, at a loss, when his back suddenly hit the wall of his cabin – Graves not far behind. The hands were back, grasping at his hips, but Graves did not rise to stand with him. Instead, he nuzzled into Newt’s crotch, mouth open and breathing hot gusts through the fabric and directly onto Newt’s prick.

Newt trembled and weaved his hands into Graves’ hair, making the man moan but not drawing him from his attentions. There was a moment, briefly, where Newt almost wanted to let him do it. Just let Graves do what he was trained to do. But it was wrong, no matter how enticing the man was. This wasn’t Percival Graves. Newt had heard such stories of _that man_. Strong and dedicated and fair. He deserved better. And if Newt gave in, if he just let it happen… he would be no better than the man who did this to Graves in the first place.

His hands tightened gently and encouraged Graves to look up at him from where he kneeled – bright eyed, half lidded and mouth flushed pink. Debauched, and he had only just started. Newt shook the arousal from his bones and forced himself to speak.

“Please, Mr. Graves,” he said, unable to stop himself from running a hand over one soft ear, then another across his cheek – heart breaking at how eagerly Graves leaned into the touch, lashes fluttering. “You can thank me, but not like this.”

Graves stiffened and his ears fell.

“I… I did bad?”

“No!” Newt said. “You didn’t do bad. I just… I can’t do that with you. Not like this.”

Graves frowned.

“I have to thank you.”

“And you can. You can. Just… help me with my creatures again, tomorrow?”

Graves stared him, and Newt realized the man was trying very hard to decide whether or not this was a trick. His ears stayed pressed against his head all the while, his body still where Newt held him.

“But Master…”

“Your master and I have… different tastes,” Newt said, trying to soothe him.

Graves drew back.

“You don’t like me. You don’t want me.” There was a fearful tremble in his voice, and in his eyes, Newt could tell something else was haunting him. So immediately, Newt crouched, brushing gently at the man’s face with his thumbs, and urged, “No, that’s not it at all! I do like you, Mr. Graves, I do. I just can’t do… _that_ … right now.”

‘ _Not while you’re out of your mind from Grindelwald’s insane machinations,’_ he thought.

“Not right now… I’ll thank you tomorrow?” Graves asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Newt said, relief heavy in his voice. “You can help me with my creatures tomorrow. That would be a great way to say thank you.”

“Okay,” Graves said, leaning into Newt where he was crouched against the wall.

“Okay,” Newt said, a sigh of relief heavy on his tongue as he pressed his head back against the wall and forced himself to breathe.

Merlin’s beard, how was he going to survive this.

* * *

 

In his cell, Grindelwald opened his eyes and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] Hey guys! Sorry for the delay, got lost in production traveling. As a side note, always feel free to send suggestions/prompts! I can’t guarantee I’ll incorporate it – but I do love brainstorming!


	5. The Weight of the Pensieve

Newt watched Graves sleep from his work table, eyes distant as he took in the image of the frail man so still and peaceful – long lashes stark against pale cheeks. Newt had heard stories of the man Percival Graves had been, but Newt only knew two sides of the man first hand: the imposter and the victim. Not for the first time, he wondered what Graves had lost. What Grindelwald had stolen. Tina obviously held a great deal of respect for the man. Madam Picquery, too.

Newt imagined him, body healthy and pristine as Grindelwald portrayed him – broad and strong and imposing – with warm eyes and able hands. Just in his actions, clever in his work, and gentle with his people. But a part of him also knew the unfortunate truth. A man with friends is not a man easily replaced. A good boss, yes. A respected man, of course. But a friendly man… no. He must have been a distant man. A firm line set in the ground between home and work. A man dedicated to the letter of the law, to the very last detail of his job, to the welfare of his employees and their success, to the safety of the public – _and nothing more_. He had no family to miss him. No loved ones. His life was no doubt a lonely life, only made easier by the sheer weight of his work to distract him.

And this was how fate repaid his dedication.

He had to convince Graves that, _no, your bed isn’t missing – you’re allowed to sleep on the actual bed, not some uncomfortable cushion on the floor_. He had to ease his worries with soft words that, _no, Grindelwald would not be mad at him,_ and _yes, I’ll be to bed soon,_ and _no, I promise I’m not leaving._

It was only then that Graves settled. The man, once so confident and powerful now sleeping in the baggy clothes of a scrawny man’s wardrobe, hair tousled and cheek still smudged with dirt because Newt hadn’t the energy to bathe him – too afraid the man would misread the situation and try to _thank him_ again.

“Oh Tina,” Newt whispered, eyes falling to the report he had been writing. There was a dark blotch of ink at the end of an unfinished sentence; dark from hesitation. “I don’t know how much help I am in this…”

The letter read: _I fear that Grindelwald has…_

Newt bit his lip and clenched his quill a little harder, willing himself to finish what he started. But even now, he did not know the right way to phrase it.

 _I fear that Grindelwald has inflicted far more damage than we originally perceived_ , he finally wrote and proceeded to detail the events of the day, down to the moment of Graves’ possession.

And then he cast his gaze back unto the man in question, heart squeezing when he realized the man was snoring very lightly. In the dim light of the little shed, Grindelwald’s tags twinkled innocently against Graves’ pale flesh. Newt wished he could just remove them.

“Please come back,” Newt whispered.

It was then, as he was watching the man, that a small hand suddenly appeared on the other side of Graves’ body. Newt stiffened, worried for a moment that he was seeing things, when finally it clicked – the Niffler. Newt stood as quickly and quietly as he could, eyes narrowed as he watched a chubby little body suddenly follow that tiny hand, the beady eyes of the Niffler staring him down even as it slowly reached for the tags at Graves’ throat.

“No,” Newt said, and quickly cast a spell to call the little beast to him. Newt watched as the Niffler scrabbled its tiny little hands in Graves’ direction before it finally gave up and allowed the spell to continue to draw it through the air and into Newt’s awaiting grasp.

The Magizoologist scruffed him promptly and held him up so they were nose to nose.

“You can’t touch those,” Newt said, and the Niffler just crossed it’s flabby little arms and looked away. “No, please, please understand – you could really _hurt_ him. He… He needs those tags. Please, just this once, don’t fight me.”

Newt wasn’t sure if it was the sheer pleading of his whispered voice or if the little creature was merely in a giving mood, but the Niffler slowly turned to look him in the eye before actually looking somewhat mollified. It sagged a little in his grasp before nodding.

Newt almost wanted to double check, but he was too blown away by the creature’s sudden change in nature to feel his normal sense of doubt in the little thing. So instead, he cautiously set it down, ready to cast the spell again, and watched. The moment the Niffler’s feet met the work table, it sat down in a heavy ball and merely watched Graves sleep. It cast its gaze from Newt to Graves and back again before suddenly scurrying down the work table’s leg and onto the floor. For a brief moment, Newt worried he had made a mistake, but the Niffler merely peered at Graves one last time before hurrying out of the shed as if on important business.

Newt blinked.

“That was odd,” he whispered, then returned his gaze back to his report – lost for words on how to tactfully tell Picquery that he had very good reason to believe Graves had been raped repeatedly. He sighed and rested his forehead on the paper, unheeding of the ink, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

Merlin, he was tired.

 

* * *

 

They repurposed the execution chamber to serve as one giant Pensieve. In its swirling depths, every memory that their Legilimens managed to lay bare played within it in striking detail – larger than life, louder than reality, and more overwhelming than Tina had been ready for. It was like this that she watched Grindelwald recall how he had cornered Graves after his walk home from a long stakeout turned case bust and _Mercy Lewis, Tina could remember that night. She had been the last person from their department to say goodbye to him that night. Was her face the last he saw before... Before Grindelwald..._

Just like that, the time with which Graves had been gone was _dated._ Months. Six months. _Six months._ Tina felt her breath seize in her chest. She could remember how tired he had looked when she found him in his office that night to let him know she was heading home. She had thought to ask if he was okay. She had thought to insist that he, too, should go home. But he had his paperwork to finish, and she knew him to be a man that wouldn’t go home until every last page was done. It didn’t matter how tired he was, if she pointed it out, he would just say that was what coffee was for.

So she didn’t point it out. Tired as she was, she let him be.

The last words _her Graves_ had said to her played aloud in her head like a painful echo.

_“Goldstein,” he had said, drawing her back to his office door._

_“Yes, sir?” She asked, afraid he might ask he to fill out some form herself before she left._

_Instead, his lips curled into the barest of smiles – something that was practically an all out grin in the books of those who knew him – and said, “Good work tonight, Tina. We’re lucky to have you.”_

Her heart ached coldly in her chest, ever tightening as she watched the memory of Graves – tall and proud, and yet limping ever so slightly – walking just ahead of Grindelwald on the street; unaware of his stalker. She wanted to call out to him. To warn him. But all she could do was watch as the dark wizard purposefully apparated himself from behind Graves to the end of a dark alley on his left. The noise drew Graves in, his mouth set into a firm, displeased line at having caught someone displaying magic so openly. And when Grindelwald lit the end of his wand with a brilliant light, it was obvious that Graves had resigned himself to having to take the man back to the office despite his exhaustion.

“Someone will see you,” Graves said firmly from the end of the alley, squinting, trying to peer past the bright light of Grindelwald’s penetrating lumos but unable to see his face because of it.

“Let them,” Grindelwald purred.

Graves stiffened and drew his own wand. With a quick look left and right, he took several steps deeper into the dark of the alley to try and mask their altercation as best as he could. Late as it was, he had little to worry for. _Maybe if someone had been there,_ Tina thought. _Maybe if…_

“If you don’t desist, I’ll be forced to relieve you of your wand and take you in for the night,” he said grimly, and Tina could suddenly see how Graves was trying his hardest to mask his limp, his exhaustion. Grindelwald smiled behind the glare of his spell.

“I’m afraid not, my dear director,” Grindelwald said. “In fact, tonight is the last night you will use your gifts to shackle your fellow witch or wizard.”

Graves stilled, his body suddenly stiff with dawning recognition. Tina thought he was going to call the man out as a Grindelwald follower, but instead Graves attacked without preamble. With a quick flick and a dodge to the right, Graves launched a harsh kinetic wall of energy at Grindelwald while simultaneously stepping out of the way of Grindelwald’s own spell. The concrete where Graves had been standing exploded, and in the building next to them, a light turned on. Graves looked at it and cursed before shoving off the wall he had stepped to and launching another attack.

Brick burst behind Grindelwald, but the man wasn’t fazed. Instead, he merely continued to advance on Graves, driving the director toward the street, making him panic – knowing how the Auror worried over prying eyes. Somewhere above, blinds rustled. Graves grit his teeth and finally held his ground, unwilling to let the dark wizard take their fight to the open.

“Your fear of our exposure will be your downfall, director,” Grindelwald said through a grin, and it was then that Graves could finally see his face, the concealing glare of Grindelwald’s lumos long since gone. Graves’ hand tightened on his wand.

“Grindelwald,” he said, voice gentled by shock.

“Director Graves,” Grindelwald greeted in return, his smile that of a cat’s.

Tina could see a hundred thoughts filtered through Graves’ eyes. Headlines from the papers, reports from the Ministry, operations from the support team MACUSA had offered. Graves frowned and set his feet, obviously no longer concerned with the world around them.

Grindelwald hummed his approval.

“Finally,” he said, his own wand raised and ready. “Yes. Show me what you can do without the shackles of our society holding you down. I want to see it for myself.”

Tina had seen Graves duel before. In practice and in the field. He was a clean, efficient spellcaster. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t underestimate, and he didn’t take chances. He cast his spells with the intention of ending any altercation immediately. The less time the enemy had the ability to cast a spell, the less likely one of his people got hurt. So his spells were fast, brutal things. Heavy hitters that slammed through tissue and concussed – and that was on a normal day.

But this… Tina had never seen Graves attack like this. Sharp, fast spells cast so pointedly, so intently, they practically cut the air like knives. She could hear the way they whistled through the air, and every strike that missed tore up pavement and brick alike. One shot in particular that Grindelwald only just managed to divert ended up turning the nearby fire escape into a hodgepodge of contorted, screaming metal. But Graves never waited to see if his work connected. One spell followed another followed another, and all the while, Graves advanced.

He was like a different man, his eyes alight with a dreadful determination that turned Tina’s veins to ice. This was the man who had fought in the war, the man they told stories about. She had thought she knew him. She had thought she knew his drive and his skill and his rigor. She was wrong.

Grindelwald was thrilled. In his manic eyes, she saw nothing but pleasure and excitement as he diverted one spell after another, guiding them away from his body with quick jabs but not having much more time than that to do anything else.

“You’re wasted at MACUSA, my dear,” Grindelwald howled over the cries of Graves’ spells.

“I’m precisely where I need to be,” Graves said, following one particularly harsh blow with a swipe of his free hand, using Grindelwald’s distraction of deflecting his spell to hit him with a dumpster and pin him to the wall.

Even caught as he was, Grindelwald laughed as though they were two friends having a merry old time rather than enemies aiming for the throat. Graves clenched his jaw, wand trained on Grindelwald as his other hand kept up the pressure on the dumpster – metal slowly warping to curl around Grindelwald’s frame.

“And where is that, pray tell?” Grindelwald asked, smiling so widely his gums showed.

“Here. Between you and the rest of society,” Graves said resolutely, but as their fight ebbed, so did his energy. Tina could see it in the softening of his shoulders and the tremble of his wand. So could Grindelwald.

“Long night, my dear?” Grindelwald asked.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Graves began, encouraging the metal to curl around Grindelwald that much quicker.

“I’m quite tired of silence, I’m afraid,” he said, something dark glimmering in his eyes.

Behind Graves, a shadow appeared. Then another and another. Men – Grindelwald’s followers.

“ ** _Crucio_**.”

The spell hit Graves in the back, pointblank between his shoulders, and felled him with a cry torn from the bottom of his chest. Tina watched as he shuddered on the ground, body seizing as Grindelwald easily detangled himself from Graves’ bindings.

“He’s as good with wandless enchantments as they say,” Grindelwald said, clearly excited as he swept the dirt from his coat and straightened himself out. Once put back together, his eyes fell on Graves and he grinned. “Let the good fellow go, won’t you?”

The spell dropped, but the men behind Graves advanced, forming a wall behind the man – blocking him from the road. Somewhere, Graves could hear the telltale beginning of sirens. He groaned and rolled from his side to his knees and tried to rise, ignoring the way his clothing dripped from the puddle he had landed in.

When he tried to get to his feet, one of the three wizards behind him raised a leg to kick him down, only to find a trash can lid suddenly flying through the air to greet him. It connected with his face with a wet crash that sent him tumbling backward, immediately unconscious and nose clearly broken. The wizard nearest Graves took two steps back. The other snarled and raised a wand, only to be disarmed.

Graves’ eyes shot up, shocked, when the wand flew to Grindelwald’s hand – the flunky’s magic stayed by the hand of a madman.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Grindelwald said, fiddling with the wand before tucking it away in his own coat. “I didn’t say to attack him, now did I, Peter?”

“But sir, he—!”

When Grindelwald raised his gaze from Graves, its humor was gone – replaced by something that made Tina shiver. “I have no use of the deaf or stupid.”

Peter shut up and took a step back. Grindelwald smiled, his farce mask returned.

“Good boy,” he said, then moved to address Graves. “As I was saying—“

Graves swept his hand just as he rose to his feet to sprint past the two goons, and instead of launching another trashcan lid at Grindelwald, he launched both of his flunkies at him instead. Tina watched, heart thundering, hoping – _hoping_ – as Graves made a break for it. With a loud crash and an angry batch of yelling, the two men collided into Grindelwald, sending the dark wizard to the ground. And for a moment, Tina thought he was going to make it. 

Graves stumbled into the road, obviously about to apparate, when a spell came arcing out of the alleyway and nailed him in the shoulder. It knocked him off balance, spinning him to once again face the alley he had come from, disorienting him. He clutched at his shoulder and panted, preparing himself to apparate – gathering energy – eyes all the while on the three men clambering to their feet.

“C’mon, Percival,” he whispered, blood oozing from his nose from exhaustion, and _reached_ for the last dregs of his magic when a loud noise disrupted his attention. A horn.

That was when the car struck him, slamming him harshly into the hood before bouncing him into the road. Tina gasped and beside her, she heard one of the other staff members watching the memory vomit.

There was screaming. A woman in the passenger’s seat was crying, _wailing_. The man who was driving cut the car in reverse and drove away frantically, and suddenly, Tina _hated_ them. She wanted to reverse the memory and look at them, find them, make them pay for not staying. If they had only stayed, then _maybe_ …

They would have died, she realized, her anger flooding out of her in an exhaustive sheet. Grindelwald would have killed them. There was no saving Mr. Graves from this. There was no changing the past.

Instead, she watched as Graves slowly opened his eyes and moaned wetly. His wand had been knocked from his hand, but even now, Graves reached for it. Even now, Graves fought. Tina’s eyes burned, and slowly the image before her became blurry through her tears as her boss tried to pull himself across the short stretch of pavement between his crumpled body and his wand. When it was obvious that his legs – _Merlin’s balls, his right leg wasn’t supposed to look_ _that way_ – wouldn’t get him there, he extended a hand to call it to himself. The wand wiggled fiercely for a moment, then fell still. Graves’ eyes fluttered. More blood oozed from his nose.

He tried again to pull his body forward when his gaze caught sight of Grindelwald approaching. The Auror didn’t make it far. He merely wheezed as Grindelwald knelt down in the road and retrieved the wand, holding it up in the light to admire it. He turned it this way and that, as though familiarizing himself with some great weapon, all the while ignoring Graves on the ground.

“Truly a wand of some distinction,” Grindelwald said approvingly, weighing it in his hand before pocketing it as well. “Steadfast and powerful. And in such a pretty package, too. Quite like you.”

Graves tried to keep his gaze on Grindelwald, but his head lolled dangerously until finally, he could do not much else but glare at the man’s shoes. He watched as the dark wizard knelt before him, and moaned raggedly when a long finger grabbed him under the chin and lifted his gaze.

“Poor Mr. Graves, hit and left to die like some mangy old dog. Your underlings didn’t see the hit you took at that raid earlier, did they? Or is it that they just didn’t care to make sure you got home, hmm?” Grindelwald asked, eyes searching. “Nobody cares for you, not truly. If they did, they’d know that you need more care than what they give you. They think you so strong. They’d let you work yourself to death, my dear. They wouldn’t even notice if you were gone. Why do you fight for them?”

“Somebody has to protect them from men like you,” Graves said, his words garbled and faint, but there all the same.

Grindelwald’s hand moved from his chin to cup his jaw, and Graves shuddered when he realized the man was watching him with fascination and no small amount of pity. As though he were some poor creature caught in a net, ripe for saving - or slaughter.

“But my dear Mr. Graves,” he said, swiping a thumb along a quickly purpling bruise. “Who is going to protect _you_?”

Graves eyes fluttered as Grindelwald grabbed the Auror by the shoulder and disapparated the both of them away – just as sirens blared around the corner. Lights flashed, illuminating nothing but a barren road and the blood Graves left behind.

The memory softened, softened, then faded altogether and Tina shuddered. When she raised her gaze, the team of Legilimens they had brought in to fuel the execution chamber turned Pensieve were kneeling on each of their respective floating platforms above the black mass, exhausted, and at their center sat Grindelwald – bound to his chair, grinning from ear to ear.

She desperately wanted to say something, _anything_ , to tear that smug look from his face. She couldn’t find the words.

“Your right hand man was quite something, Seraphina,” Grindelwald said, not even winded from the forced pulling of his memories from multiple witches and wizards. In the dim lights of the execution chamber, one eye glowed unnaturally – like a pearl in the dark. It made Tina’s stomach twist with dread. “I can see why you chose him to head up your security. He would have made it, if not for that car. Funny how fate works out. In another world, he’d be beside you. In this one, he’s mine.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Gellert,” she said, using his first name in kind with a wry brow that said, ‘ _fucking try me_ ’. “Mr. Graves is beginning to heal quite excellently under the watchful eye of our expert. He’ll be beside me once more in no time.”

That only made Grindelwald’s grin widen.

“Lying now, are we?” He asked. “Oh, things must be so much worse than they appear. How wonderful.”

With a sharp movement that had Tina stumbling for her own wand, Picquery drew hers from her coat.

“Madam President?” Tina asked, eyes wide, heart thundering, but all Picquery did was conjure a chair with a precise flick of her wand. With the grace of a great cat, she lowered herself into it and said, “Again.”

A set of shocked and weary eyes fell upon her from the platforms, the team of Legilimens exhausted. But one by one, they stood – wands extended – and began the process once more. But Grindelwald did not care. He only had eyes for Picquery.

“Will we die, just a little?” He asked, repeating his words from the train station before the light of the Legilimens spells fell upon him, rolling his eyes into his head, making him seize in his bindings. Below, the next memory began to appear.

“Madam Picquery,” an Auror said, coming to stand beside her for a moment. “I can report to you, if you have something else—“

“He attacked one of our own, Smithfield,” she said, not even bothering to look at the man. “I will watch this. Every moment. Every second. I will know his pain, and when this is done, so will Grindelwald.”

“Madam President,” Smithfield said softly, obviously recognizing the dismissal, and backed away to his former spot.

“We’re ready, Madam President,” one of the Legilimens said, voice strained.

“Show me.”

Tina brushed away the cool, wet tracks on her cheek with a thumb and prepared for the next memory.

 

* * *

 

Newt hadn’t even realized he had been dozing at his work station until his leg began to fall sleep, alighting his calf and toes with pins and needles. He mumbled sleepily, confused when his leg was far heavier than it had any right to be, and looked down to see a dark mop of hair on his thigh. It was Graves. He was seated on the floor beside his chair, his cheek pressed to Newt’s thigh.

Newt blinked, then everything that had happened over the past two days came flooding back to him.

“Mr. Graves?” He mumbled and gently drew his fingers through the man’s hair to wake him. “What’re you doing on the floor?”

With a soft groan and a long yawn, Graves looked up to him and said, “You didn’t come to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes crawling to the report Newt had been writing for President Picquery outlining Graves'… _progress._ He frowned ever so slightly, the expression only soothing out at the sound of Graves’ soft whine of recognition. With a wave of his wand, he transformed the report into a mouse and sent it off – eyes heavy as he watched it scurry up the ladder of his suitcase. “I’m coming.”

Newt rose from the chair, and when it became obvious that Graves would not settle on the bed without him, he made fast work of his nightly routine before finally laying down. But when Graves did nothing more but stand at the edge of his bed and whimper, obviously wanting something but conflicted, Newt reached out for him and grabbed his hand. Too exhausted to explain, Newt simply guided Graves down onto the bed, pulling only gently, giving Graves the option to pull away. He didn’t.

Instead, he pressed the long, lithe line of his body into Newt’s side. He was shorter than Newt, and that worked well with the size of Newt’s bed. He fit quite comfortably into the dip of Newt’s side, and they were down for no more than a handful of moments before Graves simply tucked his nose into Newt’s collarbone and fell asleep.

The warm weight of Graves’ body lured Newt into sleep easily. The icy, unnatural feel of his tags however – unable to warm, even pressed between them – woke him often through the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I honestly can't even tell you how much ya'll have been making my day with these comments and kudos. Like, damn, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Also, sorry for the angst. There'll be a lot more angst to come.
> 
> Also, as always - feel free to send suggestions (for this fic, other fics, or new fics) - can't guarantee anything, but I always love brainstorming!


	6. In There, Somewhere

_Poor, poor child – the water’s up to your neck now,_

_And it’s so wild that it still hasn’t pulled you right down, right down._

_You’re not here, you’re not here._

\- INSIGHT by WRENN

 

There was a burning growing low in Newt’s gut, small at first but slowly rising and spreading until it woke him with a soft flutter of lashes and utter confusion. Newt clutched the sheets, the feeling not ebbing, and tossed his head to the side where Graves should have been.

He was gone.

“Mr. G-Graves?!” Newt shot up to his elbows, eyes wide. There, between his legs, was a familiar mess of hair and soft black ears – warm, brown eyes staring up at him through dark lashes as Graves sucked Newt down from the tip of his head all the way down to the root. Newt moaned and trembled, and wondered if he clutched any harder if he’d rip the bed sheets. He could feel Graves’ nose pressing against his skin, breathing softly. The gentlest whisper of teeth against his skin.

“Graves, s-stop,” he whimpered, but the eyes staring at him just kept staring, and instead of listening, Graves just _hummed_ and _swallowed_ around him. Newt tossed his head back and let loose a helpless cry, his very bones screaming for more. But oh, how his heart pumped a furious and familiar crescendo through his veins; self hatred. He couldn’t use Graves like this. He couldn’t let him do this, even if – even if –

Graves pulled free with an obscene pop that Newt couldn’t see from behind the forearm he had pressed to his eyes in denial. But he heard it, and it made him shiver all the same. He felt sick.

“Am I a good boy, Master?” Graves asked, cheeks flushed and ears perked. Newt squeezed his eyes shut – torn on praising or scolding – when a sudden knee to his gut tore him from his dream. Newt opened his eyes with a soft huff of lost air and quickly leaned away from the source of his sudden pain.

It took him a minute to catch his bearings between the confusion of his arousal and the pain of his gut before he finally was able to recognize what was happening. Graves had accidently kneed him in his sleep – _which Newt thanked any god that could hear him for it only being a dream –_ and if the man’s tossing and turning and gentle whimpering was anything to go by, it wasn’t a good dream. There was sweat beaded on his forehead, eyes scrunched and thick brows drawn.

“M-Mr. Graves,” Newt murmured softly, reaching out to grab Graves’ shoulder. “Mr. Graves, it’s alright, it’s just a dream. _Percival_.”

Sharp brown eyes shot open, the whites around them visible in Graves’ panic as he focused on Newt’s face. He was breathing harshly, great gusts of air whistling through flared nostrils, and for the first time, those brown eyes almost looked sentient. Newt felt something like hope flutter in his chest, but just as quickly as the look was there, it was quickly fading away. Like fine sand through thin fingers.

And Graves seemed to know it, too.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt asked again, jerking back when Graves only flinched violently at his touch.

“No,” Graves whimpered, a hand darting to his collar and tugging. “N-no,” he moaned, and the sheer amount of distress in the sound made Newt’s stomach clench. If Newt wasn’t fully awake before, he was now. He sat up, hands raised as if to touch, but too afraid to. His eyes scanned Graves, searching for _anything_ he could do to help – but that sharp look was already gone, replaced by soft, simple eyes.

Newt let out a soft huff of disappointment, but quickly washed the expression away when that gentle gaze caught his disappointment and whimpered. Graves’ ears fell flat and his gaze shied away.

“It’s okay, Mr. Graves,” he said soothingly, stroking the man’s hair, “You’re okay.”

“It’s gone again,” he said, voice meek.

“What’s gone?” Newt asked, dipping his gaze to catch the other man’s eyes. “What’s gone, Percival?”

Beneath his hands, Graves began to tremble.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But it’s gone.”

“Oh Percy,” Newt said, the pet name falling from his lips suddenly and without a thought as he reached forward to gather Graves to him. He did so slowly, afraid Graves would flinch away again – but whatever Graves had been beside him a moment ago was gone, replaced by need and want and fear. Graves followed his gentle guidance eagerly until his head was tucked beneath Newt’s chin, body trembling fiercely beneath his hands. But Graves didn’t make a sound.

Newt ran his hands through the Auror’s hair and down the slender length of his knobby spine over and over until the trembling lessoned – always sure to avoid the collar with every stroke. Eventually, sleep took Graves once more, but it did not come back for Newt. Which was good, Newt figured. His erection had long since died, but the dream still haunted him. Suddenly, he feared sleep. He feared himself. So he stayed awake, nose buried into the soft feel of Graves’ hair, and waited.

Between them, Grindelwald’s tag glimmered innocently in the low light.

Daybreak came slowly, but Newt found himself loathe to disentangle himself from the man in his arms. It was with no small amount of willpower that he finally forced himself to do so – gentle so as not to wake the poor man. The moment he finally escaped the bed, he stood completely still and waited, wanting to be sure the Auror didn’t wake. Graves didn’t. Instead, he merely followed Newt’s warmth until he filled the spot Newt had vacated, nesting further into the bed with a small sigh.

‘ _Don’t get attached, Newt,’_ he thought to himself whilst taking in the way that Graves’ loose shirt had slid down one arm in his sleep, exposing an exquisite sliver of skin. ‘ _He isn’t a creature, he can’t stay here. He has a life to return to. Tina and the others will find a way to help him and he’ll be back to normal before you know it. So don’t get attached. This is temporary.’_

At least he hoped it was temporary for Graves’ sake. He had seen the man behind the curtain, if but for a moment. He was in there, somewhere. It was _his_ eyes – dark and deep and fathomless – that held Newt’s attention whilst he quietly went about his morning rituals. Normally he’d be making his rounds throughout the enclosures by now, but he was too afraid to leave Graves alone to wake on his own.

Even so, Newt felt a pang of guilt echo in his gut, knowing that some of his creatures were no doubt waiting for him. It was that feeling that drew him to the doorway of his little cabin, a mug of tea warming the calluses of his palms as he looked out over the expanse of his case only to see a familiar shape hovering around his enclosures. With a blink, he realized it was Dougal, Pickett perched on his shoulder. Even over the distance, he could see Dougal’s large eyes sudden move to focus on him – and with a slow and knowing nod, Dougal returned to attending to what creatures he safely could. Newt felt something fierce bloom in his chest, awestruck and so in love with the family he had cultivated with his merry, if chaotic, little case.

“Thank you, my friend,” Newt said over the distance before turning around to return to his post. Dougal had bought him a precious hour or two to let Graves sleep a little longer. He’d need to attend to the remaining creatures soon, but for now, Newt could focus on his guest and how best to help him that day. It was with that thought that he sat at his work table.

“What can I do?” He asked himself beneath his breath, eying the sleeping figure in his bed. His own words echoed back to him – _He won’t be here forever._ And he wouldn’t. So what better thing to do than to start cataloguing notes for, say, the specialists that would no doubt eventually try and crack Grindelwald’s spellwork or whoever might help Graves after him. A guide to taking care of Mr. Graves, as it were. Newt smiled, familiar with this sort of approach to helping, and turned to his parchment and his quill.

Where to start…

“Let’s begin with what we know,” Newt decided. And so it was with that thought that Newt made a list of observations.

**A Collection of Observations on One Percival Graves:**

And so Newt wrote about every detail, small and large alike, that he could think of from his experience over the past 48 hours. He mentioned that Graves suffered from a loss of fine motor skills, such as buttoning his own buttons or grasping a pail, although he appeared to be improving. He wrote about the fact that Graves was picking up on more complex language ever day and stammered for intricate words less and less the more he interacted with Newt. He noted that Graves needed to be touched casually often throughout the day lest his fever begin and mentioned further more that Graves often sought contact as a form of self-assurance and support. He wrote about how Graves still knew how to use the restroom – _thank Merlin_ – and that Grindelwald had no doubt kept that ability in Graves’ mind since taking a naked wizard to the park to poo would no doubt draw attention. Or at least, that was Newt’s theory.

He talked about what rules he knew Grindelwald had imposed upon Graves and which ones the man did and did not feel comfortable breaking. He discussed that Graves was making progress on standing on his own two feet again, rather than four, and that if not reminded to eat, he wouldn’t ask – _so please do be mindful to feed him regularly_. He noted that Graves’ ears were incredibly expressive and that much of his behavioral patterns closely resided with those of the canine creature that Grindelwald had in fact modeled him after.

Graves needed human interaction, he said, and would not settle well in any room alone. After a long moment of internal conflict, he finally mentioned that Graves had been sexually abused and suffered from brainwashing, and was taught that sexual favors were the way one showed gratitude.

He wrote that Grindelwald had stripped Graves of any recollection of his own name – and although Graves had been trained to respond to Pretty, he was slowly getting familiar with other names in its stead. While he did not recognize Graves to be his original name, he did not often correct Newt about it.

He was just about to dip his quill back into its ink jar and take a break when there was a sound of a crack at the top of the stairs leading out of his case, closely followed by the unsnapping of his locks before the case opened up altogether. It was a simple matter to call his wand to him, and in seconds, he had it drawn and aimed when the image of Tina Goldstein appeared at the top of his steps.

With a relieved sigh, Newt let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and quickly averted his gaze with a soft smile.

“Tina,” he said, his eyes on her cheekbone, “You startled me, I—“

He stopped. There was something wrong. Her cheek was wet. Slowly, his gaze fluttered to her eyes, then back again. She had been crying recently, although didn’t appear to be anymore. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her nose, too. Newt rose slowly, as though afraid to startle her, and gently set down his wand.

“Tina?”

She came down the stairs slowly and closed the case behind her with a small flick of her wand before stopping at the bottom of his stairs, chin tucked and eyes down. Newt stopped a few feet from her.

“What’s wrong?”

At her sides, Tina’s hands clenched into fists and in one hand, her wand trembled.

“Madam Picquery sent me home,” she said, her voice harsh and resentful like sandpaper, but frail just beneath. Maybe grateful, if you really listened for it. Newt blinked.

“What? Why?”

Something flashed across Tina’s face and she shook her head, her short locks flopping weakly around her face. She hadn’t been taking care of herself. She had no doubt not rested since the raid of Graves’ apartment. It showed in the dull limp texture of her hair and the dark circles beneath her eyes. And if her gauntness was anything to go by, Newt was willing to bet she hadn’t eaten, either.

“O-okay,” Newt said, hands extended as if in surrender, and he nodded. “Alright. Would you… would you like tea? Biscuits? I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee.”

“Tea would be lovely,” she whispered, and Newt saw her gaze slowly travel to the bed. He stiffened. So did she. “How is he doing?”

Newt watched her for a small moment, unsure of what to say, before finally turning to preoccupy himself with making tea the Muggle way.

“I was actually just writing a report about that,” Newt said softly, filling his little copper kettle and tipping his chin to point out his notes. “He’s doing…remarkable well, all things considered.”

Something in Tina brightened at that, her stance suddenly a little peppier, and Newt was quick to hold out a hand and say, “Small progress, mind you. But progress all the same.”

“The fact that there’s any progress is remarkable,” Tina said in a telling tone, and Newt gave her an odd look, suddenly aware that she knew things he didn’t. But he didn’t press, instead lighting the fire beneath the kettle and turning to face her – or at least, the corner of her jaw. He saw it clench, awaiting questions. He left her be. He knew enough, for now.

“He’s talking more. I managed to coax him into walking around on two feet instead of all fours yesterday – although that appears to be hit or miss. He’s…improving. He even,” he started, then trailed off – the image of Graves, _the real Graves’,_ panicked brown eyes still vivid in his memory. Newt swallowed.

“He even, what?” Tina pressed.

“He… He was back, for a moment,” Newt said softly, his own gaze sliding to Graves. “Seconds, really, but… he’s in there. Somewhere.”

And when he looked back to Tina, it was to the sight of wet eyes. Tina’s lip trembled.

“He’s in there?” She asked, her words distorted by a little distressed gasp.

“Yes,” Newt said with a very small smile, “I think so.”

Tina’s shoulders drew up around her neck, tense from where she fought the habit, and she trembled very softly. Her eyes slid back to the bed.

“ _I watched him disappear, Newt_ ,” Tina finally gasped, wringing her hands. “We were able to pierce Grindelwald’s mind, and we thought he was _fighting_ us, and he made it look like they were forcing his hand but the memories… he was willingly showing us whatever _he_ wanted _._ The last memory he showed, it was… one of Graves last good days. He was just about to tell him the way to cure his condition – to, to _rub it in_ that Graves would forget and it didn’t matter if he told him – when the memory just _stopped_. Grindelwald stopped it. Threw up mental barriers so fierce, one of our Legilimens collapsed. And now all he shows us is… _horrible_.”

She babbled until she was out of breath.

Newt rushed forward and gently ushered her to a chair at the table, unsure of what to do. Quickly, he waved the hot water into a mug – his favorite mug – and slipped a bit of magic into the air to set in the tea bag, a dollop of honey, and a splash of cream while he sat down in the chair beside Tina and grasped one of her hands.

“We can’t control it and we’re running out of time before the Ministry arrives,” she finally choked, wet eyes on Newt. She trailed off. Tears hit the table, loud in the silence. Newt clenched her hand a little tighter and he knew. He knew why Picquery had sent her away. He thought of his dream and he knew.

 “He’s safe now,” he said softly. The only silver lining. “He’s safe, thanks to you. You and your team found him. And even if we don’t locate the memories we need, I’m sure there are other ways. Longer ways, maybe, but ways all the same. It won’t do us any good to give up now, not when Graves’ is still with us and trying.”

Gently, he floated the cup of tea in front of her, unaware that she had looked away until suddenly she stiffened in her seat and clenched his hand _hard._ Newt followed her gaze, then softened.

Somehow during all the commotion, Graves had managed to wake without their notice and nearly cross the room. He was almost to Newt, crouched low to the floor on all fours, wary of Tina but too desperate for contact from the only person he recognized to stay away. When it was obvious that Tina wasn’t going to move, Graves made it across the last stretch between them – eyes on Tina the whole time – before finally settling on the floor beside Newt. Newt had thought he’d sit on his other side, keeping Newt’s body and chair between himself and Tina – but he didn’t. And Newt couldn’t help but feel immensely grateful for that small mercy. If he had so obviously rejected Tina like that, he knew how much it would crush her. The fact that she alone had not been able to coax Graves out two days ago still haunted her.

_But hells bells, what horrible timing._

 Newt flinched, eyes on the tea between them even as he felt the familiar pressure of Graves’ jaw line pressing into his thigh. Tina’s hand began to tremble in his.

“Tina,” Newt tried, only to be interrupted by a soft keen from the man beside him. With a sigh, Newt used his free hand to wind into Graves’ soft locks and looked down to address him. He was warm to the touch, warmer than he should be. “Good morning, Mr. Graves.”

Graves said nothing, eyes wary and focused on Tina. Although inaudible for now, Newt could feel the soft rumbling of a cautious growl rumbling from Graves’ ribs pressed so fiercely against his leg.

Newt frowned and brushed Graves’ hair from his eyes, “This is Tina. You’ve met her, remember?”

“Tina,” he repeated, just like he had when they found him. Tina shivered.

“Yes. Tina. She’s a friend,” Newt explained. “She came to visit you.”

Graves quirked his head, ears akimbo. Newt tried desperately to ignore how adorable the expression looked on the man. Tina, however, only swallowed thickly and tried to put on a brave smile. Newt could tell that to her, the expression wasn’t cute.

To her, it was another reminder of how Graves’ team had failed him.

“Hello, sir,” Tina said gentle, her voice only warbling just a little. “How are you feeling?”

Graves blinked at her, then turned to look at Newt – obviously perplexed by the question.

Newt smiled at him encouragingly and said, “Why don’t you tell her what we did yesterday?”

Graves seemed uncomfortable, having so much attention on him, but he obeyed. Eyes still on Newt and pressing ever so slightly closer, he said, “We fed the other animals. I helped,” and then a flash of something bright as he remembered, “I _ran_.”

“You did,” Newt replied, fingers scratching gently behind one ear – praising. Trying to ignore the way Graves had said ‘ _other animals_ ’, hoping desperately Tina had not caught it, too.

Above Graves’ head, Newt could see how hard Tina was trying to stop from trembling.

“T-that’s great,” Tina said, back stiff as a rod in her chair. Newt wished he could tell her to relax her body language. That Graves would pick up on her unease and reflect it. But Graves was also perceptive. He would know that he wasn’t behaving how Newt wanted him to and he’d _react_ to that and _hells bells, Newt didn’t know how to manage this situation._

The air was fragile between them.

He needed to feed Graves, although the man would never admit that he was hungry. But he knew where that would lead. To Tina watching Graves eat on the floor like a dog. To Newt fighting with him yet again that, _no, you don’t have to lick up your mess._ And he couldn’t let her see that. Not in her state of mind.

Tina needed to rest. She needed to eat, to sleep, to take a stiff shower and in general take care of herself, because she could hardly help anyone if she herself was about to collapse. He tried to think of the best way to tell her so, but every line he thought of sounded like another dismissal – just as Picquery had done. Tina wasn’t weak, but that’s the way she’d take it. But Picquery knew what Newt knew – that Tina _wasn’t weak_ , but she also had a job to do. A job she couldn’t do if her mind was caught on this. Distracted by what she couldn’t change.

So it’d need to be something that she’d understand.

Newt’s fingers glided absentmindedly through Graves hair and down until he felt the familiar rasp of something short and burning against his skin – stubble. All at once, several things clicked into place. He thought of the dirt still on Graves’ cheek and knew what to do.

“It was lovely of you to visit, Tina,” Newt said. He licked his thumb and began to rub at Graves’ dirty cheek, ignoring the way the man shied away at the strange display since it achieved the goal that Newt had intended – drawing Tina’s attention to the fact that Graves needed a bath. “We need to get the day started. I’d use magic, but I don’t know if it’ll have an adverse reaction to Grindelwald’s… _gift_. While I’ve performed magic in front of Mr. Graves, I’ve yet to perform actual magic upon Graves himself, you see.”

“O-oh!” Tina said, rushing up to her feet suddenly, startling Graves. There was a telltale blush rising on her cheeks although she tried her best not to show it, and quickly went about tightening the little belt around her coat. “Of course, yes, right – I’ll just… be going. I’ll…check in again later?”

“That’d be lovely, don’t you think, Mr. Graves?” Newt said, brushing his finger’s against Graves’ shoulder, drawing his attention.

Graves blinked, then looked at Tina strangely. For a long moment, he was afraid the man wouldn't acknowledge Tina at all. And he could see that fear in Tina’s eyes, too, but finally something clicked in Graves’ head. What it was, Newt couldn’t say, but Graves smiled and said, “Goodbye, Tina.”

And while it wasn’t much, it was enough to make Tina smile.

She took a step forward for a moment, as though to stroke his hair, but hesitated. Instead, she nodded her head fiercely and said, “I’ll see you soon,” and quickly disappeared up the stairs again.

With the wave of one hand, Newt drew his wand to himself and charmed his quill to write out a quick message to Queenie – _Make sure that your sister sleeps and eats before going back to MACUSA. –N –_ then sent the little note scampering off before turning to look at Graves.

The man was looking up at him eagerly, their prior visitor obviously forgotten, and said, “Bath?”

“Food first,” Newt said warmly. “Then bath.”

“Okay,” Graves beamed.

“Okay.”

_Godspeed Tina Goldstein._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So BLESS YOU PEOPLE who constantly keep commenting on these chapters with such lush, insightful comments and praise and MY HEART CAN'T TAKE IT THANK YOU SO MUCH.
> 
> And I promise, Graves and Tina will be bros again soon. For now, forcing their relationship when both would be so wary and uncomfortable just felt rushed. But soon. SOON. 
> 
> As always, I am trash. Thank you guys for reading my trash. This piece of trash loves you all so dearly.  
> Tumblr - Funkzpiel (send suggestions/prompts if you'd like! I guarantee nothing, but you never know!)
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO - some people seem interested in the flashbacks. There will be one or two more in this, but would anyone be interested if I wrote a prequel from Graves perspective, taking place during his captivity? Too much? XD


	7. To Find Peace Together

Newt watched Graves eat with a heavy knot of dread twisting in his belly, leaving his own food untouched. He occupied himself with turning his steaming cup of tea this way and that, letting the warm edges soothe the rough calluses of his hands while he waited; all the while trying to ignore the inevitable task ahead.

Graves ate eagerly and with a speed that spoke volumes toward how frequently – or in this case, _infrequently_ – Grindelwald had seen fit to feed him. Although his ribs were already a testament to that; Newt could count them from where he sat.

Newt thought about his plans for the day. He’d make good on his promise to allow Graves to ‘thank him’ by helping out with the creatures. They’d say hello to the mooncalves and he’d be sure to let Graves romp around through the field again, maybe this time with some creatures to keep him company. And later that night he would encourage Graves to eat with the bowl in his hands rather than setting it on the floor and bending over completely to reach it – a compromise he’d be far more likely to achieve than trying to convince the ex-Auror to eat from a chair so fresh from Grindelwald’s conditioning. He thought about these plans, his eyes distant, as he tried his best to keep his mind from the next task at hand – bathing Mr. Graves.

Merlin’s balls, he wished he could just magic the man clean and be done with it. But while one part of him knew it wouldn’t be the first time he had used magic on the man, he also knew that just because it didn’t harm Graves once didn’t mean it might not react badly with the tag if done again. What if using magic on the man fed the enchantments on the tags and made their compulsions stronger? After all, the enchantments had to draw energy from somewhere. With Grindelwald gone and unable to maintain them, would they naturally fizzle out? Or was his magic so powerful that even time could not challenge him?

Newt shivered, unwilling to be the cause of more pain to Mr. Graves.

He startled out of his thoughts when Graves suddenly appeared between his splayed legs and rested his chin on one of Newt’s thighs. He was smiling, unaware of Newt’s turmoil. If he had a tail, Newt was willing to bet it’d be wagging – thump, thump, thumping against the rough wooden floor of his little shack. Newt ran a hand into Graves hair and tried not to think about how natural that felt already.

“Thank you,” Graves said, eyes on him.

“Y-you’re quite welcome, Mr. Graves.”

Graves tilted his head, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but whatever he had on his mind, he didn’t say. Instead, he merely closed his eyes and leaned into Newt’s touch. Newt ran his fingers gently against the place where Graves’ huge black ears met his scalp, not missing the way it made the man shudder pleasantly beneath him, before finally letting his finger tips trail over the shadow of dark stubble – flecked with gray – that hugged Graves’ jaw.

“How does your Master normally get rid of this?” Newt asked, thinking of how cleanly shaven Graves had been when he found him.  

Graves opened his eyes and focused keenly on him, startling Newt for a moment beneath the weight of those brown eyes before finally Graves said, “Straight razor,” as if it were as obvious as the color of the sky.

“Of course,” Newt said, heart stuttering at the thought of Grindelwald holding something so sharp so close to the delicate skin of Graves’ neck _. Of Graves just sitting there_ , letting the madman _do it_. Still. Obedient.

When Newt swallowed, his throat clicked.

“Straight razor it is.”

So Newt magiced the bowl back to the cupboard with a quick ‘ _scourgify’_ and floating enchantment, and Graves watched it go with quiet fascination as Newt made his way to his humble little bathroom. The first thing Newt did was transform the little space into something a little more comfortable for two grown men to crowd into. The act was a spectacle to Graves, who crawled tentatively forward from where he had been kneeling to make his way to the doorway and watch as the room expanded – fingers fluttering ever so slightly against his knees from what Newt assumed to be muscle memory rather than any conscious thought. Still, it gave him hope.

Once that was done, he compelled space into the small tub until it was a large, circular thing deep enough that its occupant could submerge to their shoulders while sitting. He even included a bench halfway deep that wrapped all the way around the edges of the tub and a lip on top of its outer rim wide enough for Newt to perch on. Then, with an absent minded flick of his wand, he began to fill the massive thing with steaming water.

Newt chewed on his lip for a moment, stomach coiling tightly as the inevitable came fast upon them, before deciding to procrastinate as much as possible. He grabbed a few oils and extracts to add to the water. First an extract from the Swooping Evil, to help ease any tension left over from Graves’ bad dream that morning, and then a hint of lavender to aide in relaxation; both for Graves as much as they were for himself. Then, he set about setting soap, a soft rag, shaving cream and a straight razor on the side of the tub. He had to do some scouring to find the straight razor. He often used magic to get rid of his own facial hair in the morning. But his brother had given him a travel kit, once upon a time. He was grateful for it in that moment.

Finally, Newt tested the water with a sure hand, all the while carefully avoiding Graves’ curious gaze, before sighing and turning to address him.

“The bath is ready,” Newt said, trying to remove any trace of nerves from his tone. “Go ahead and… r-remove your clothing, if you would.”

Graves nodded and reached for the buttons of his shirt, but immediately his fingers fumbled. Newt watched him struggle for a moment, unable to pass on the opportunity to properly observe how Grindelwald had stolen Graves’ dexterity. After a few tries, it became apparent to Newt that the dark wizard had done nothing _physically_ to Graves’ fingers or their mechanics. Rather, he must have done something to the man’s _mind_. Now that he was looking for it, he could see the cloud that was steadily building in Graves’ eyes – thick and hazy – as the man frowned down at his shirt. It was as if he couldn’t envision or fathom the way he needed his fingers to move.

It wasn’t until Graves began to squint, the corners of his eyes creased with pain, that Newt saw how deep Grindelwald’s work ran. The longer Graves fought it, even subconsciously with a task as simple as this, the more the cloud grew and with it, pain. Punishment. Graves dropped the button for a moment to scrub at his eyes before setting back to work, only for his hands to be cradled in Newt’s.

“Like this,” Newt said, and slowly began to guide Graves’ fingers through the motions of unbuttoning one of the buttons. When it came free with a soft pop of movement, Graves jumped ever so slightly – ears perked. “Now you try.”

He watched with bated breath as Graves tried again, his fingers stumbling over the next little bead of plastic, scrambling to mimic what Newt had shown him. But when it became clear that the man had still not picked up the trick, Newt simply wrapped his fingers around Graves’ once more and guided him through the motion again, this time slower.

“Don’t think so hard about it,” Newt said softly as he popped free another button and then guided Graves down to the next. “That’ll just strengthen the compulsion he put on your mind. Your body remembers how to do this. Let it do the work for you. Focus on my fingers; the way they move yours. Press the button’s edge into the hole and gently encourage it through. There we go,” he praised as another came free, “Just like that. Good bo—“

Newt stopped, his hands frozen like claws around Graves’ midway to the next button. He trembled. His was heart a thunderous pressure in his chest and his blood was like ice in his veins. He thought of the dream, of the name that Graves had called him – _Master_ – and quickly jerked away as though he had been burned.

He didn’t, however, miss the flash of hurt that flickered in Graves’ eyes. It only makes it worse. Newt flinched and looked away.

He can hardly breathe.

Was he… _Was he no different than Grindelwald?_

‘ _But I’m trying to help,’_ Newt pleaded frantically with himself, eyes lost distantly on a random spot on the floor. ‘ _I’m not like him. I’m not.’_

Hands, gentle around his, guided him back from the dark. This time, it was Graves that helped Newt through the motion of unbuttoning his last two buttons – each move revealing more and more of the pale, milky skin beneath until finally, the shirt slid free of Graves’ shoulder with a whisper.

The Auror looked up at him with a dopey, excited smile and asked, “Like that?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Graves,” Newt breathed out on a shaky huff and tried to smile past the panic pressing in on his lungs. “Just like that. Good – g-good work.”

It appeared to be enough, because Graves’ smile turned into a full on beam with all the warmth of the rising sun beneath his praise before he quickly bent over to pull down his pants.

And then he was naked.

Again.

Newt tried to fight down the blush that rose unbidden to his cheeks as he discretely averted his eyes – missing the slight pang of confusion and fear that flickered in Graves’ gaze, ears drooped.

“Now that that’s done, let’s get you in the tub and cleaned up, shall we?” Newt asked, trying to fill the space between them with words and shaky half smiles. Without making direct eye contact, he then helped guide Graves over the lip of the tub via a set of stairs he had hastily constructed.

One foot into the water and immediately Graves moaned and flopped the rest of the way into the warm embrace with a splash until only his eyes and up were visible above the water’s surface – ears pert and attentive atop his head.

“Too hot? Too cool?” Newt asked as he distracted himself with straightening the various things he had set atop the ledge of the tub. His hands trembled.

Graves shook his head, eyes following him, but silent – feeding off of Newt’s body language, he realized. Newt cursed himself. So with a soft, steeling breath, he rolled up his trouser legs and hefted himself onto the ledge of the tub so that he could dangle his legs inside and assist Graves easily.

The water was gentle – soothing from his oils and extracts – and absolutely refreshing. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a mere moment to enjoy the sensation and collect himself, only to open them suddenly when he felt the displacement of water gently lapping at his calves.

Graves had moved and now stood in front of him – not quite between his legs, but if he were any closer, he would be. Newt tried not to look at the way water had beaded on the man’s exposed skin or how it ran from the sharp edge of Graves’ jaw, down the corded length of his neck and over the strong plains of his shoulders before disappearing into the tub again. But he couldn’t help but feel his breath stolen away all the same.

A feeling he tried to stamp down immediately.

‘ _He’s not well,’_ he reminded himself angrily for the millionth time even as his gaze locked with the warm one that was watching him; seeking his guidance and direction. _Needing his help._ Newt swallowed and his throat clicked dryly. ‘ _Stop it. You’re here to help, not admire.’_

“Let’s deal with that mop of hair first, shall we?” Newt said, unwilling to touch Graves’ body just yet. Hair was an easy start. Hair would do. He attempted to smile reassuringly as he gestured for Graves to come closer.

It must have been a position Grindelwald had used in their own routine, because Graves knew without being prompted to turn and sit between Newt’s splayed legs. Overwhelmed, the lanky magizoologist just ran a damp hand through his own hair on a shaky breath before finally reaching over for the soap. He put a dollop in his palm – gentle and frothing and smelling of sandalwood – before turning his attention to the mess of hair awaiting him.

He reached out gently first, fingers winding the soap into soft locks, all the while watching Graves for any adverse reaction. But when none came, he began to rub his fingertips into the Auror’s scalp with a little more confidence, his work gradually turning the soap into a lather as he began to massage his scalp more attentively. He washed away the dust from their excursion outside the other day, fingers plucking out a random stalk of grass as they wound through soft strands of inky black and gentle wisps of silver. Graves moaned softly – not in carnal pleasure, but rather out of sheer comfort and ease – and Newt couldn’t help but smile knowing that he had given the man at least that much, if even for a moment. Peace.

He was careful to keep the soap from Graves’ eyes when he compelled a small plume of water to rise from the tub and run over Graves’ scalp. He felt more than saw Graves melt back against him, his pants quickly dampening in every place where Graves’ skin met him. Pressing hard, as a dog would – seeking comfort and attention.

And as the last enchanted bubble of water ran the final dregs of soap from Graves’ hair, the man opened his eyes slowly – eyes heavy lidded – to look up at him.

Newt smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow.

“Did you enjoy that?”

Graves tipped his head against Newt’s thigh, nose buried into the fabric there, and nodded.

Next Newt took the rag he had set aside and eased soap onto it before working it into a later. He ran it first along the back of Graves’ neck and gently rubbed the mixture into his skin. Newt had feared the intimacy of bathing Mr. Graves all morning; his dread a living, breathing thing that had knotted his guts into unpleasant, heavy spirals. But now that he was there, he couldn’t help but find himself enjoying it – and not for the reason he had feared.

There was a peace they found there in that little tub together. Something rhythmic and soothing in the nature of washing dirt from the Auror’s skin. Something powerful about finally being able to do something concrete and visible and tangible to help. Something empowering to Graves, too – noticable in the way his body language had changed. Completely at ease, assured – attended to. For a long moment they sat in silence together, just enjoying the warmth of the tub and gentle motions of bathing before finally Newt set aside the rag once more and instead reached for the shaving cream.

“Could you face me, Mr. Graves?” He asked, working the foam into a soft mass on his hands as he watched Graves wake from his reverie. It was simple work to spread the mess gently onto the man’s face.

It was another entirely to consciously pick up the straight razor and lift it to his throat – bared and obedient and completely willing. And all the while Graves watched him, completely trusting.

“Stay quite still, okay?” Newt asked after he spoke a quick spell to sharpen the dull edge of the razor’s blade, soft from years of disuse.

“Okay.”

It went slowly. In all honesty, if felt like years passing for Newt. Each rasp of the blade over the man’s stubble left him trembling, afraid each swipe would leave a splash of blooming red behind – but it never did. After all, Graves kept quite still and Newt, despite his fear, had a practiced hand at detailed, steady work like this. And as the last ribbon of cream fell into the tub and melted away, Newt let loose a grateful breath.

“There we go,” he said as he set his razor down and reached to inspect the man’s cleanly shaven jaw, baby smooth beneath his fingers. “All done.”

“Thank you,” Graves said, his eyes big and smothering in their focus. Newt swallowed tightly beneath their weight.

“Y-you’re quite welcome, Mr. Graves.”

“Graves,” he said finally, head tilted but obviously comfortable enough with Newt to finally ask the question the magizoologist had seen flash across his eyes so many times. “You keep calling me that. Why?”

“Because,” Newt said, averting his gaze as he set about lifting himself from the tub’s lip and drying his calves. “That’s your name.”

“My name is Pretty,” Graves said, and when Newt finally lifted his gaze to see him, it was to the sight of Graves staring at him – head still tilted – but obviously uneasy and obviously curious.

“Pretty is what your Master calls you,” Newt said softly as he rose and set the towel aside, then turned his full attention on the Auror in his tub. “But it’s not your name. Not your _real_ name.”

Graves frowned and reached up to touch the glimmering tag and its engraving.

“But Master –“

“He gave you a…nickname, I suppose you could say,” Newt said. “Just for you two.”

“Just for us,” Graves repeated softly, then looked at him expectantly. “So what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your nickname? For me?” Graves said, suddenly hesitant.

“Do you not like being called Mr. Graves?” Newt asked.

Graves didn’t quite shake his head, but he didn’t deny it either. Newt smiled.

“You have other names, you know,” he said, hoping one of them might strike a chord. “Your full given name is Percival Graves. Do you remember that?”

And when Graves shook his head and shrank ever so slightly, Newt held out a hand to ease him.

“It’s alright. How do you like Percival?” He asked, and after a moment added, “Or Percy?”

Graves ears perked up.

“That’s my name?”

“It is. Would you like for me to call you by that?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Newt said with a smile and held out a hand to help Graves out of the tub. “Let’s get you dried off and ready for the day, Percy.”

And when the man grasped his hand and smiled back, it felt like a victory – even if it was a small one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a little longer and a little slower and a little more intimate than even I had expected it to turn out - but after a quick rewrite, this felt right. I didn't get to the spot I thought I would get to from this, but I do like how this chapter came out. I think. XD
> 
> And the verdict is in - once this fic is over, I'll be writing a prequel covering Graves' POV during his captivity and his descent into his current predicament. 
> 
> As always, thank you for continuing to read and support this fic. Your comments and kudos and praise seriously make my day, I really can't thank you all enough for taking the time to say such nice things. Bless you.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT - I almost forgot! HUGE THANK YOU TO PSPUSER who made this absolutely amazing work of art based off of Graves from this fic. It's beautiful (and a tid NSFW, fyi) - but seriously ya'll, go look at it. I'm so fucking flattered and honored, I never thought anyone would be inspired by this fic to draw. Like, writer goal achieved, I can die happy.  
> http://pspuser.tumblr.com/post/157123416660/funkzpiel-love-your-work-sooo-much-and-graves-is


	8. The Lost and Precious Man

It was a memory they played again and again, and Grindelwald never tired of showing it.

When Grindelwald opened the front door of Graves’ flat after a long day of impersonating the man, it was to the sight of said director laying a few feet from the entry way, trussed up in an exotic crisscrossing of bindings from one of the trap spells he had left upon the door. With a soft, knowing sigh, Grindelwald merely swept into the flat and gently closed the door behind him before getting a better look. He walked up to the bound man until he was looking straight down his nose at him; a small, pitying smile on his lips as he took in the director laying helplessly on his floor – eyes wide and staring up at him.

The leather that bound him was soft – intentionally so, Grindelwald didn’t want to hurt his pet after all – but tight and merciless in its constricting. Thin black straps wove in neat lines this way and that around Graves’ body, contrasting gorgeously with his milky pale skin and the soft pink of his flesh where the straps bit too tight. It left him with his arms pulled tight to the small of his back, leather crisscrossing from wrists to shoulders and his ankles bound back to the meat of his thighs. From there, the bindings were far more visual than they were efficient; black lines twisting around the sharp jut of his hips and tracing the long curve of his spine, hugging his ribs, just grazing his nipples in a tight diamond of straps, and finally winding around his jaw and into his mouth. What a beautiful creature, his Pretty.

It had been a clever spell he had decided to leave upon the door on a whim one evening. Something only activated by his wards sustaining any significant damage – magical or otherwise – should anyone try to dismantle the magic that kept Graves safely inside. Grindelwald had actually forgotten about it, as sure as he was that Graves would never risk triggering his collar by using magic again. And for months, he hadn’t.

Until today.

Which meant the man _had_ used magic, and with that thought, Grindelwald felt a little plume of excitement blossom in his chest. But he didn’t investigate, not yet. Instead, he simply watched and let Graves stew below him – curious as to which Graves he was dealing with.

And when his captive did not immediately begin to shudder in obvious anxiety from _disobeying_ him, he knew. At least he wouldn’t have to hide his own magic tonight.

“Ah,” Grindelwald said as a long, cruel smile slowly split his stolen face in half. “ _You’re back_ , director. It’s been a while.”

Beneath him, Graves wriggled, nostrils flared as he breathed heavily through his nose. He had his cheek pressed against the soft, glossy hardwood floor as he tried to wriggle up, ignoring the drool that dribbled ever so slightly from where the leather bit tight against the corners of his mouth.

Grindelwald felt the crotch of his pants begin to tighten, but ignored it as he slowly fell into a squat beside his pet.

“I was beginning to think you were gone, dearest,” he said as he reached out, ignoring the way Graves’ jerked back as he tucked a sweaty lock of hair back from his brow. “I should have known better. Something as tenacious as you takes time to break properly, don’t you?”

Below him, Graves _growled_ from deep inside his chest, only to still – ears tucked back – when he realized what he had done. Not because he had threatened Grindelwald, _Pretty’s Master_ , but because he had growled while in his right mind. The lines were blurring. Grindelwald smiled.

“Not much longer now though, huh, pet?” He mused, reaching down to grasp Graves’ chin and run the pad of his thumb along the soft stretch of the man’s lower lip. “Not when you triggered the collar yet again. You’re so eager to be complete, aren’t you? To be _mine_.”

Graves jerked his chin away and visibly clamped down on another growl before it could escape, eyes fierce from where they glared at him beneath heavy brows. Grindelwald chuckled, then made a show of examining him – turning him gently this way and that. The dark wizard could have forced all the changes he had in mind upon the man in one go, but why rush the journey? It was far more entertaining to watch the man inflict the changes upon himself, after all; one by one falling victim to the power of his own magic. No one to blame for his modifications but himself.

“So what did you trigger this time? Still no tail, I see. A pity,” he said softly, only to draw back onto his heels and squint down at the man when he could not find any noticeable changes. But the wards on his door _were_ damaged, so the director had done something… But what? When he caught the pleased look on Graves’ face in the wake of his own frustration, Grindelwald merely snorted at him and rose to his feet to further investigate.

Everything in the flat looked as he had left it on first sight. It was only as he took a step from the front hall and into the main living area that he felt glass crunch beneath his shoe. Upon pulling his foot back to better inspect it, everything immediately clicked.

A conduit – small and fragile and made of glass, but powerful if used correctly. Grindelwald made a show of looking Graves in the eye as he knelt to grab one of its remaining pieces and hold it to the light between them. In its depths, he could see fragments of his own magic swirling – details of his wards. Graves must have gotten about halfway through funneling the wards into the small orb before enough damage had occurred and triggered his trap spell, flinging him back from the door and no doubt smashing the little artifact in the process. It was clever. While it would have taken the man a long time, Graves could have easily guided the entirety of Grindelwald’s wards into the little orb without ever having to use magic strong enough to trigger his collar and another change. If fact, given enough patience and luck, Graves could have been a free man today.

And all because Grindelwald had made the mistake of thinking the director’s mind was finally gone. After four and a half months of conditioning, he had decided to entrust Pretty with free reign of the flat out of sheer curiousity. And for the past week he had come home every night and found the man just as he had left him – cutely curled upon the dog bed at the foot of the four poster bed that had once belonged to Percival Graves, wiggling eagerly in greeting.

What had changed?

Grindelwald let the little shard fall from between his fingers, relishing the way Graves flinched when it shattered even further on impact. He was beginning to tremble now, the dear thing; Pretty’s mounting fear battling with the director’s frustration in his eyes.

Pretty was slowly coming back. Grindelwald smiled.

“Clever, director,” he said as he rose and made his way back to the prone man. “I’m impressed. You never _cease_ to impress, in fact.”

He knelt down again to run a finger along the expanse of one of the man’s sharp cheek bones, “Ever since the night you almost got away, you’ve never stopped impressing me.” He moved his fingers down then, along the long line of Graves’ throat – his heartbeat aflutter just beneath his fingertips. “Whether on your feet and ready for a fight,” he said, then skimmed his fingers across the hard nub of one of the man’s nipples, “Or on your back and eagerly awaiting me to take you.”

“Don’t touch me,” the man growled thickly as best he could through the leather in his mouth and jerked back again, his naked skin squealing against the hardwood.

Grindelwald smiled kindly, but it was nothing close to actual kindness. And Grindelwald knew Graves could see it, because the man beneath him hunched in on himself ever so slightly and trembled – his ears tucked back despite himself. Like a viper, Grindelwald snatched the director’s chin back into his grasp and pressed hard on his bottom lip, exposing the white line of the man’s teeth beneath it before slipping his thumb inside entirely. When Graves didn't bite, Grindelwald smiled - pleased.

“As fun as you are, director, I do miss my pet,” Grindelwald mused, eyes twinkling in the midst of Graves’ rage. “Let’s bring him back, shall we?”

And then he apparated them to the bedroom.

Graves blinked, disoriented, as Grindelwald slid back against the headboard and quickly manhandled Graves into a straddle atop his lap – still tightly bound.

“It’s nice to be able to use my gifts in front of you again, dear heart,” Grindelwald said as he snapped his fingers, in an instant removing his clothes that stood between them. Above him, Graves shuddered as the hard length of Grindelwald’s cock sprung free to press thick and heavy against the cleft of his ass.

Curious, Grindelwald removed the leather that filled Graves’ mouth with a sweeping gesture, and immediately, Graves began to protest their activity.

“D-don’t,” Graves stammered, his confidence waivering as he visibly fought to stamp down on a moan. And in his eyes, Grindelwald could see the beginnings of his Pretty manifesting. He smiled and reached up to brush a thumb along the intricate engraving of Graves’ tag, his nail biting into the “P”. Graves shivered.

“This doesn’t have to be so hard, dear thing,” Grindelwald said kindly – _slyly­_ – as he then moved his hand up to cup Graves’ jaw. He watched as the man’s long, sooty lashes fluttered against his cheeks and felt his dick harden even further against the man’s ass. Graves had felt it too, if his shudder was anything to go by. “You enjoy this. You know you do. Just let it happen. Just give in.”

And before Graves could say a thing to contradict him, the dark wizard conjured a thick, hot line of slickness in Graves’ rectum – filling him until it began to weep from his asshole in a soft gush. Above him, Graves threw his head back and keened, eyes barely open as he struggled for control.

“Ssh, ssh, shh,” Grindelwald whispered gently against his skin, lips at his nipples and suckling. In his grasp, the director jerked and his own length began to rise in kind. “You know this dance. You know I’ll take care of you.”

“S-stop,” Graves whimpered, then immediately frowned – displeased at the wrecked sound of his own voice. Grindelwald grinned against the hollow of the man’s throat and nibbled kindly at the skin he found there.

And then he leaned back so he could look the man in the eye as he brought one hand into the air between them – the other still planted firmly on the man’s hip – and began to make a scissoring motion with his fore and middle fingers. The effect was instantaneous. Graves used whatever leverage he had, however small, to rise ever so slightly from Grindelwald’s lap as though trying to escape something.

But there was no escaping this. There was no escaping the invisible fingers Grindelwald had conjured into Graves’ anus, spreading him. There was no escaping the way they pressed up, _up_ , further than any human fingers could go or how they gently brushed against that little node of nerves inside of Graves that nearly had him screaming – his spine a sharp line of pleasured agony atop him.

And in those stormy brown eyes Grindelwald could see the man that fought him tooth and nail slipping, slowly replaced in little spurts by a gentle haze of _yes_ and _Master, please_ and _more._

When he was able to comfortably fit three invisible fingers up the man’s ass, he pulled away and waited for the man that slumped down to rest atop him to slowly catch his eye; the director returned as the pleasure reduced from a hurricane to a restless lapping of waves – chest heaving.

“Still with me, director?” Grindelwald mocked, one hand lifting to brush back Graves’ sweaty locks as the other cruelly traced the man’s puffy, eager hole. Above him, Graves snarled; teeth pearly white in the low light.

“Release me,” he growled from between his teeth, eyes seething. “You fucking _coward_ and I’ll show you how I’m very much _still here_.”

Grindelwald grinned at him then and watched the man’s face as he aligned his dick subtly with Graves’ hole and penetrated him in one long thrust that left the man gasping. “But you look so _pretty_ all trussed up like that. I’m afraid I can’t resist.”

Whatever Graves had to say next, he didn’t have a chance to say – not when Grindelwald took that chance to see the expression on the man’s face when he fucked the words from his train of thought. Each pump left the man panting, his body rocking to keep up. And every time it looked like the director had regained enough wit to speak, Grindelwald changed his angle ever so slightly to fuck the words away again.

Fingers traced the skin of Graves’ tailbone, blunt nails tickling gently as Grindelwald grinned mischievously up at the man riding him.

“You’re going to slip up eventually, _dear thing_ ,” he said, his teeth a long line of white that split his face in half. “You’ll use your magic – to escape, to fight, maybe to _please me_ and you’ll trigger your final change. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Graves shuddered from his place atop Grindelwald’s lap, his hips thrusting in minute, confused little spasms as his former self went to war with the creature that Grindelwald was shaping. He panted and sweat beaded at his temples as he glared down at his abuser.

“I won’t… make that mistake again,” he gasped, his words interrupted by a particularly harsh thrust up against his prostate, making his breath hitch. Between them, his dick twitched – hard and weeping. Graves bit his lip. His thighs _shuddered_ , and Grindelwald could see how hard he was struggling. How much he yearned to be away from him – from his home turned prison. But the collar anchored the man in place – physically and mentally. Grindelwald traced the fine leather with his fingers, in awe of his own work. The tags glimmered sweetly in the low light; twinkling innocently.

“You will,” Grindelwald said, his confidence making Graves’ ears tuck down and bare his teeth, unaware of his own behavior. “And when you do – _oh_ , _how lovely you’ll be._ A nice, flowing tail to match your pretty little ears. Complete and perfect, just for me. It’ll be quite the gift, and I’ll reward you so nicely.”

“Not. Happening,” Graves grit out from between his teeth, nostrils flared in barely contained rage even as his other half happily responded to their activity, making his hips meet down against Grindelwald’s upward thrusts – each motion a little more enthusiastic than the last. Graves threw his head back and cursed, feeling his dominant mind slowly drown into the haze of his other self with each strike against his prostate.

His growl turned into a keen, and below him Grindelwald grinned.

“It will,” he said and hooked one long, elegant finger into the metal loop that attached Graves’ tags to his collar, pulling down just hard enough to make Graves’ back arch to meet him until they were nose to nose. “Because of this. There’s no escape, Mr. Graves. Not while you wear this. Not while you can’t perform magic. Not while I can find you anywhere,” another thrust, harder than the last, “any time,” and another, “whenever I please.”

“No,” Graves whispered on a huff of lost air, eyes heavy lidded and slowly clouding over.

“Yes,” Grindelwald whispered back, and then he flipped them – shoving Graves’ back deep into the bed so that he could plow into him harder, thrusting the man physically deeper into the soft silk of the sheets until he had him crying with pleasure, his lip busted from where he had tried to bite them back. Another dozen thrusts was all it took to send his pet tumbling over the edge, his spend hot and sticky between them as Grindelwald stilled his length within that clenching heat and _released._

And when he was spent, he lowered the broad length of his body down and smothered Graves until his lips were brushing the man’s ear and said:

“You belong to me. Mine. _My Pretty_ ,” his words chasing the man down into the abyss the collar trapped him in as Pretty slowly rose up from the darkness of his mind. “Because no matter what you do, you’ll never get this collar off. Not without –“

And then Grindelwald drew the memory to a shuddering halt, causing the Legilimens on the platforms around him to collapse and scream – grasping their heads from the brutality of his mental backlash. All around them, the memory fell to ashes and was swept away until he was looking straight into Madam Picquery’s eyes across the abyss that separated them. He smiled.

“You seem particularly fond of that memory, Seraphina. Do you enjoy seeing my pet so thoroughly debauched on my dick? I could show you again, if so.”

But Picquery did not rise to the occasion. She merely watched him through lioness eyes as she pondered him from her conjured seat. Her eyes were sharp much like his were, unsettling in their keenness, and he couldn’t help but feel a spike of regret knowing that this was yet another of his kind – brilliant and talented – tricked into hiding in the shadows and using their gifts against their kin. Oh, how majestically her gifts would blaze if she would just let the Muggles lie where they belonged…

In the mud.

Finally, Picquery unwound her legs from where they had been crossed and rose, staring at his bound form from down her nose before dismissing him entirely and turning toward her staff around him. Kneeling, breathing hard – some bleeding from their noses.

“Rest,” she commanded. “Eat, drink. Take two hours to collect yourselves. Then remember the man – _one of our own_ – that is depending on us and return with everything you have. We have one night left before the Ministry comes for him. Let’s make it count.”

She did not spare them another glance as they gratefully, if somewhat ashamed, filed past her. Instead, her gaze returned to him. Fierce. Unforgiving. Unrelenting.

They could have made quite the team, in another world.

Grindelwald smiled.

“You’re running out of time,” he said, eyes twinkling in the darkness of the inactive Pensieve.

“As are you,” she said simply, hands tucked into the small of her back and chin high. Her strength was so tangible, he almost overlooked the dark circles that were slowly growing beneath her eyes or the way her hands would have trembled if she had not tucked them so tightly away. She had left the chamber only a mere handful of times throughout the duration of their interrogation.

And a woman such as Picquery did not have the sort of time to devote so whole heartedly to one employee. In the darkness, Grindelwald’s smile grew. She did not falter.

“He’s important to you,” he surmised.

“He’s an important member of this government. You knew that. There’s a reason why you took him.”

“There are many reasons why I took him,” Grindelwald said. “Powerful enough that I need not hide my own talents. Respected enough not to be questioned. Important enough to work on his own. But _you_ – you can’t afford to halt government for one man. He’s _important._ A friend? A _lover_?”

Something pained flashed across Picquery’s face for an instant, and Grindelwald’s smile grew.

“He is important,” she said.

“I could crush him,” Grindelwald said, pressing his advantage. “In a moment, I could ruin forever the man you know. I could release his mind totally, and beneath the floodgates he would snap – lost forever. Or I could return him to you. If you would only –“

“You won’t,” she said blandly, as though suddenly tired, but with no lack of confidence. It made Grindelwald sit up straighter.

“Oh? You sound so sure, Seraphina. Are you willing to gamble with his life?”

“I’m not worried,” she said, eyes on him; distant and old. “After all... He’s precious to you, too.”

It was then that the doors to the execution chamber opened and a dozen Aurors entered. He watched as she turned her back to him after one last, long stare and instead addressed the men and women that filed into a line along the back wall – joining the small team of Aurors that had been guarding Picquery throughout the interrogations.

“Watch him. If he so much as moves, kill him,” and then her eyes fell on a familiar face. “Goldstein, with me.”

Then she was gone and Goldstein with her. And amidst the faces of a dozen Aurors, Grindelwald’s face split into a grin and he laughed – laughed until it followed after her down the hall.

Laughed until it drowned them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that I love you guys? Because I love you guys. Your kind words and constant support give me life.
> 
> Now for your weekly dose of Grindelwald!douchebaggery.


	9. The Visit

It was as Newt was toweling Graves’ hair dry that the man broke the gentle haze of their peaceful morning. Newt had managed to convince the man into another pair of ill fitting clothing without much of a hitch and was starting to feel rather optimistic about their day until that moment. He currently had the man perched on the edge of the tub, head bowed so he might better towel him off.

“Tina,” Graves finally said, “She was sad.”

_Tina…? From earlier that morning. Oh._

Newt let the towel fall still for a moment, surprised, before he started to rub the man’s scalp a little more vigorously again – mindful of his ears.

“Well, um… yes. I suppose she might have been,” Newt trailed off as he searched for the words to explain Tina’s state of mind without explaining _everything._ “Maybe she’s had a rough start to her day. It happens, Percy. I wouldn’t worry—“

“She was sad,” Graves clarified, his eyes stormy in a way that made Newt’s heart still. “When she looked at me.”

“Oh,” Newt breathed, his expression breaking ever so slightly as the director picked up on his hesitation and bowed his head a little more beneath the towel, hands trembling in his lap. “Percy…”

“Did I… did I do something bad?” He asked, and Newt could see it in the lines of the man’s shoulders and back that he was bravely preparing himself for _something._ His ears were tucked tight to the thick hair of his head, practically unnoticeable; his tremble, however, was unmistakable.

“ _No!”_ Newt said immediately, letting the towel slide to hug Graves’ neck and dipping down so that he might catch Graves’ downcast gaze. He didn’t. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Tina is just…” Newt licked his lips before finally settling on the right words and said, “A close friend of Tina’s is missing. She’s been trying to find him. She misses him very much. A lot of people do. And you… you happen to look like him.”

Graves slowly looked at him then, searching his face for something.

“Do you know what might help?” Newt asked, suddenly inspired by a thought.

Graves’ ears perked.

“Next time you see Tina, chat with her. Seeing you happy and cheerful will remind her of when her friend had been happy and cheerful,” Newt explained. “And that’ll surely make her smile, even if only for a little while.”

“Talk about what?” Graves asked, confused. Newt chuckled and stood, his fingers brisk and efficient as he gently guided Graves’ wet hair into some semblance of order.

“About anything, really. Tell her about the creatures you’ve helped or the enclosures you like best. Tell her she looks pretty or that you like her coat. Ask her about the magic she knows,” Newt suggested. “The sky is the limit.”

Graves pondered that for a moment before nodding, eyes big and serious as they looked up at Newt.

“I can do that,” he said.

Newt smiled.

“She’ll love it. Now come along,” he said as he quickly left the bathroom, gesturing for Graves to follow.  
“We have a case full of creatures depending on us for breakfast!”

Graves followed him out, hot on his heels.

The day passed slowly after that, but all at once, it seemed over.

They had spent much of it just as Newt thought they would – wandering throughout the enclosures and attending to his impromptu family of creatures. And Newt couldn’t tell what made him happier – seeing the light that shone in Percy’s eyes as they interacted with the creatures or the way that all of them took such a liking to the man. Since the moment he introduced Percy to Dougal, the little seer hadn’t let him go. Literally. Instead he led the director by the hand everywhere, showing him this and that about the enclosures with a patient kindness that made Newt’s heart swell. Pickett had taken up residence in Percy’s hair as well, weaving little flowers through the growing strands behind the director’s ear amidst happy chirping.

It was as if every creature was highly attuned to the sheer hurt that had been done unto the auror and now each was doing its best to give him comfort in their own way.

The only creature he hadn’t seen in a while was the Niffler, the strange little bastard. He had spotted him once – his little butt wiggling this way and that in his nest – before the creature had scampered off again, no doubt to one of his many other nests. Searching for something, it seemed. But before Newt could dwell on it, he was distracted by another creature and all thought of the Niffler’s strange behavior was out of his train of thought entirely.

The Mooncalves had gathered at Percy’s feet immediately, all pressing in on him, happy at his return. They chirped and purred as he wound his fingers into their fleece and fed them, promising to visit later when they tried to follow him to the next enclosure. And Percy greeted every creature with an eager fondness that made Newt feel like the man had been doing this at his side for decades rather than days. He just _fit_ here so perfectly.

It stung…

Newt sat on a rock that perched out from the field, Dougal nestled beside him, and watched as Percy chased a particularly rambunctious Mooncalf around that had managed to follow them out of its enclosure. It’d trot just out of Percy’s grasp and gurgle at him cheerfully before taking off again, the man hot on its heels and grinning. Happy.

Dougal’s hand closed around his, drawing his attention.

“What is it, friend?” Newt asked. He followed the little creature’s large gaze up and over his shoulder. With a twist he looked back, only to smile broadly. Even from his spot he could see Tina exit his shed and begin the trek over to him. He waved, only for his smile to falter when he wave back appeared to be halfhearted. He felt his chest clench.

Dougal held his hand a little tighter then released it before disappearing all together. Newt frowned, suddenly wary.

“Tina,” he greeted her from his perch. He waited for her to sit and when she didn’t he sighed and slowly rose to his feet. “Something’s happened… hasn’t it?”

She bit her bottom lip, her eyes following Mr. Graves as he ran in the field. She blinked rapidly and Newt felt his stomach sour.

“Madam President wants to talk to you,” Tina said, eyes back on Newt. “Alone. She’s in the shed.”

“Ah,” Newt said, his own gaze traveling to the innocent view of his little shed in the center of his case – small and unimposing, but suddenly filling him with so much dread.

“I can watch him,” she said, drawing Newt’s attention.

“Best we tell him,” Newt said, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Percy!”

The man had just been about to catch the Mooncalf when Newt startled him. Also startled, the Mooncalf ran from enclosure – no doubt to rejoin its herd. Percy watched it go with a peculiarly sad look before finally turning to look at them. His expression flickered once he caught sight of Tina. Ears perked at the sight of her.

“There’s a guest who wants to have a word with me in private,” Newt said. “I’ll be just a moment. Can you keep Tina company while I’m gone?”

Graves nodded, and with a small smile, Newt turned to give Tina’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze before heading to his shed. Just when he reached the doorway to his little shack he turned back, just to be sure, only to find that Graves had finally approached Tina and appeared to be starting a conversation, if slowly. Newt smiled gently, then braced himself and went inside.

He found her standing in front of one of his more cluttered shelves – her fingers a mere breath away from brushing its contents as she read the labels of each bottle she found there. At the sound of his arrival she merely said, “You own many illegal items, Mr. Scamander.”

“To help, not to hurt,” Newt said.

She glanced at him then, neither accusing or forgiving, and said, “Gellert Grindelwald believes his motives noble as well, Mr. Scamander. Just because you _believe_ it is for a good cause does not make it so or any less illegal.”

Newt shrugged.

“Did you come here to arrest me?” He asked.

Picquery sighed then pulled her hands tight to the small of her back and turned to fully face him.

“No. I did not. Apologies, Mr. Scamander. I am more than a little…weary, right now.”

“Of course,” Newt said with a curt little tip of his head. “May I ask why you did come, Madam President?”

Picquery paused for a long moment, as though searching for the words, before finally regarding him and his question.

“Percival Graves is a good man,” Picquery said. “He was my most dedicated auror. At every turn of this administration, he has been its backbone. It was Graves who kept this community safe, both by his own hand and in how he trained and handled his people. He was first to his desk, last to leave. First to take a bullet, last to beg. I’ve seen the man go days without rest in order to help one of his own. I’ve seen the scars of his time in war; heard the stories. These are just some of the qualities that make him a _great_ man… but do you know why he is a _good_ man, Mr. Scamander?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Newt said softly, eyes on Picquery’s cheek when finally she turned to look at him.

“Because when he could have stood atop someone’s throat in order to get what he wanted,” she said, her eyes lost on a distant thing that Newt just couldn’t quite grasp. “He offered that person a hand instead.”

Newt watched her for a long moment, chin tucked but eyes focused.

“You miss him.”

Picquery’s gaze slid to him, cool and crisp and yet distinctly human.

“Very much,” she said. “I didn’t realize it until he was… until he was _gone_ , but I should have seen the warning signs. If not in Grindelwald’s farce, then in my own behavior. Graves has always been a trusted advisor to me. I see the world in black and white, Mr. Scamander. It is something that has benefited me as a leader. But there are times when the world doesn’t need black and white decisions, and in those moments, Graves served as my shades of grey. When he suddenly stopped providing compassionate input I should have known…”

Newt remained silent, unsure of what to do with himself otherwise.

“Grindelwald has…beaten our system. We’re going to try again, but it is unlikely we will get the information we need before the Ministry of Magic takes him back to England to be tried.”

“And what does that mean for Mr. Graves, should you fail to get the information you seek from Grindelwald?” Newt asked hesitantly.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, I’d like to see him,” Picquery said, her back tall and proud, but her eyes cool, distant embers that smoldered weakly – dying. She had come to say goodbye, Newt realized, and stood a little straighter.

“Madam President, I –“

She raised a hand to still his voice, her eyes boring into him, and for a moment, he saw her struggle for words. But when her gaze fell back upon him, she composed herself so quickly and so rigidly it make the little hairs on the back of Newt’s neck stand on end. He shivered.

“Please, Mr. Scamander.”

“Of course.”

She followed him out of his little shed. He uttered a soft “watch your step” as he led her through his enclosures – uneasy to have a woman of the law as clinical and Picquery in the sanctuary he had created. But she made a point of not looking too closely and for that, Newt was grateful.

Newt felt something warm and tight clench in his chest as they approached the field where he had left Tina and Graves, his eyes on the pair sitting side by side, chatting away comfortably. He smiled and for a moment, his eyes burned ever so slightly. He can still remember the stricken look on Tina’s face when they had found Graves; hurt that she couldn’t get close, couldn’t help. To see them now, shoulder to shoulder – he startled when Picquery suddenly spoke.

“See, Mr. Scamander?” She said softly, firmly – the littlest smile on her lips, her eyes knowing. No doubt commenting on the notes he had sent her just a night or two ago. “I think you’re making far more progress than you give yourself credit for.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, eyes fond as he watched them.

“Oh, looks like they’re done,” he heard Tina say, turning to catch sight of them. She waved at them, smiling, and Newt waved back. Shortly after Graves turned around too, eyes bright and cheerful—

Only to fall, his expression breaking suddenly like shattered glass, the moment he laid eyes on them. It set every warning bell off in Newt’s body, and without thinking twice he felt himself reaching for his wand, already spinning on one foot to regard whatever foe must be behind them for Graves to react that way, only to find nothing but the emptiness of his case and a few creatures ambling by in the distance.

“W-what?”

“B-but _I wasn’t bad!”_ Graves whimpered, and Newt whirled around, confused. With a feeling akin to his heart dropping out at a freefall, he realized that Graves’ eyes were not trained on some foe behind them; he was in fact looking _at them_. Or to be more precise, Newt realized – the Madam President.

Beside him Picquery froze, confused and at a loss.

“I wasn’t bad,” Graves whimpered again, scrambling back from his perch beside Tina and tumbling slightly into the grass before finally catching his balance. He stopped in an awkward stoop, and Newt’s stomach twisted when he realized it was no doubt because he knew he shouldn’t be standing on two feet according to Grindelwald’s rules, but also knew that running was faster than crawling. He stayed like that, hunched over and trembling so fiercely Newt could see it – all large eyes and pressed back ears and absolute terror.

Tina sprung to her feet and took a step forward to help him, calm him, but it just made Graves take a few more steps away from them.

“Everything’s alright, Mr. Graves,” She said, pleading. “That’s Madam President. She’s a friend. Don’t you remember her?”

“ _I remember_ ,” Graves said, and it was the closest to a growl Newt had ever heard leave from ‘Pretty’s’ lips since the day he had managed to coax him out of that little closet.

“Mr. Scamander, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Newt said, bringing himself lower to the ground, hands out. “Percy, it’s just us. There’s nothing to be afraid of. No one here will hurt you.”

“Then why is she here?” He asked. He glanced between them and whined. “I wasn’t bad. _I wasn’t bad._ M-Master said I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t bad, was I?”

Graves was nearly crying now; frantic – each breath coming in harsh, whistling gasps through his nose that left Newt’s lungs burning in sympathy.

“Master?” Picquery asked.

“You said I wasn’t bad. Tell her I wasn’t bad,” Graves pleaded, eyes locked on Newt, and Newt felt his stomach fall through his shoes under the weight of the implication. _Master_. He took a step back, the breath knocked from his lungs, and reeled. “Master, _please!_ I don’t want to go to the room!”

“Mr. Scamander?” Picquery asked, brow quirked.

“I didn’t tell him to call me that,” Newt said in a rush, eyes wide and pleading and absolutely lost because everything was slipping out of his control so quickly – how could he have possibly thought he could help? He was a magizoologist, not a doctor. For fuck’s sake, he probably made it worse.

He realized his mistake in not acknowledging Graves too late.

Graves’ breath hitched in his chest, and Newt looked over just in time to see the man frantically shaking his head and backing up – eyes so wide Newt could see the whites of them. His clothing was starting to pull apart at the edges into frantic little whispers of particles and movement, and with a sickening lurch, Newt realized what was about to happen.

“Percy, no!”

He locked his eyes on Newt and disapparated; leaving the three of them standing there, stunned and staring at the place he once stood.

“I thought he couldn’t _do_ magic,” Tina said, shocked and confused and panicked. “I thought you said he didn’t even recognize it!”

“He can’t,” Newt said, trying to focus on their questions even as his mind was reeling. “He doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean his _body_ doesn’t remember how to do it. No doubt he did it on instinct, judging by how terrified he was. Muscle memory.”

“And I thought no one could apparate in or out of your case?” Picquery asked.

“No one can, it’s warded and charmed against it,” Newt said. “But you can apparate and disapparate between the enclosures inside the case. Just not in or out of the case itself.”

“Then where did he go?” Tina gasped and twirled on the spot, frantic.

“Likely somewhere safe,” Newt said numbly, heart still breaking at the thought of Graves’ terrified pleading – all focused on him, as if Newt could save him. He crossed his arms around himself and gripped tightly, eyes averted; unable to stop replaying the memory in his head.

“And where might that be, Mr. Scamander?” Picquery asked.

“I have a good idea, but I think it’s best I go alone, considering…” Newt said softly, trying to ease the blow – but Tina flinched regardless and in Picquery’s eyes, he saw her coldness grow. “I’m sorry.”

“Find him,” Picquery said finally, gesturing to Tina to follow her. “We have to return to our _guest_. And for the love of magic, Mr. Scamander, ensure that the director doesn’t use any more magic.”

That caught Newt’s attention. Finally, he looked up to hold her gaze.

“Why? I would have thought you’d be pleased he was still able?”

Something in the woman’s eyes made Newt’s blood turn to ice. He shuddered, suddenly much more desperate to find the man.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she simply said, then turned and walked back to Newt’s shed. Tina stopped beside him as she passed for a brief moment – her hand soft and tentative as it reached for his, but he couldn’t help but pull away. A stricken look crossed her face and Newt felt his guilt grow.

“You _are_ making a difference, Newt,” she said. “Please don’t give up.”

And then she too left him, alone in the middle of the field Graves loved, with nothing but his artificial wind and the sound of his creatures to comfort him. When he was sure both women were gone, he fell onto his haunches, wrapped his arms around his legs and pressed his face into his knees. His shoulders quivered. His lungs ached. His heart felt like a stone in the ocean, sinking further and further away from him.

He gave himself five minutes to wallow in self pity. Five minutes to break. To collect himself. And when those five minutes were up, he lifted his chin atop his knees to find Dougal standing in front of him – waiting patiently.

“Hello, Dougal,” he said. “Are you here to help me find Mr. Graves?”

Dougal nodded.

“Do you know where he is?”

Another nod.

“Alright then,” Newt said and wearily rose to his feet. He had a good inkling on where the man had gone, but regardless he let his little friend gently wrap his long fingers around his own and lead him deeper into the case where a large rock spun round and round, high into the air and close to the artificial moon he had charmed to hang above it. As he passed the other exhibits, everything was eerily still. The Nundu was laying across the edge of its enclosure – eyes on the Mooncalves’ exhibit, a sad purr rumbling low in its throat. It didn’t even bat at him as he passed. The Occamy were peering out from their nest in a sad huddle. Even the Dung Beetles had ceased rolling their dung.

Newt could feel the weight of a dozen eyes following him as he let Dougal lead him on until finally they were at the edge of the Mooncalves’ enclosure. Even from the bottom most level of their area Newt could see them all amassed atop the little mountain he had made them. They were all congregated beneath the large tree at the highest point of their enclosure, and as he slowly climbed to meet them, he could hear their soft and worried chirping. The same noise they tended to make when one of the little ones in the herd fell ill.

Sure enough when he crested the top of their little mountain (more like a hill, really, but Newt tried), he found them practically laying one atop another in a ring around the tree and at their center was a man – a familiar man – unconscious at the base of the tree and covered in worried Mooncalves.

“Percy!” Newt gasped. Dougal released his hand as Newt rushed forward through the herd of Mooncalves to reach his charge. Around his neck, the collar was smoking as if smoldering although thankfully it did not appear to actually be burning Graves’ skin. And the tags that hung from it glowed a hot, molten color as slowly they cooled in the chill night air of the enclosure. Graves himself looked lax as a doll, curled on his side as he was. There were dried tracks of tears on his face, his skin pale and blotchy. Newt fell to his knees beside him and quickly gathered him into his arms. He whimpered, in pain.

“Merlin’s beard, what happened to you?” He asked, eyes wide as he felt the man in his hands tremor weakly. “How did you even disapparate—“

He fell short, the question lost and trailing away as his eyes caught sight of something that had decidedly not been there before. The seam at the back of Graves’ pants had been split clean open and through that gash of torn fabric protruded a long and distinctly bushy tail of jet black fur. With trembling fingers he followed that tail up to the base of Graves’ spine where it melded seamlessly into flesh and bone.

It was real. There was a real honest to God tail attached to Graves’ body and suddenly Picquery’s words came rushing back to him.

_“And for the love of magic, Mr. Scamander, ensure that the director doesn’t use any more magic.”_

Grindelwald was not the one fueling Graves’ collar or its various enchantments.

Graves was.

* * *

In the execution chambers, Grindelwald suddenly opened his eyes. Slowly his lips spread out into a cruel and wicked grin, and he chuckled – drawing the ire of one of the dozen aurors watching him.

“Shut up, you bastard,” one of the aurors spat. “You’ll have plenty of time to laugh when you’re dead.”

“Soon it will be me standing on that platform and you sitting in this chair, boy,” Grindelwald said quite cheerfully. “And when that time comes you’ll realize the error you made.”

“Oh yeah? And what, pray tell, is that?”

Grindelwald smiled.

“You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] Sorry this took a billion and a half years, friends. I definitely struggled with this chapter and there are things I like about it but there are also things even now that I'm like >:( WHY YOU NOT COME OUT RIGHT. But finally I have reached a product I'm okay with putting out. As always, it needs to be edited - I'll likely do that in the next day or two. So be gentle until then. <3
> 
>  **IN MORE FUN NEWS - PEOPLE ARE AMAZING AND KIND AND DREW THINGS FOR THIS FIC, PLEASE GO LOOK AT THEM AND COMPLIMENT THE PEOPLE BECAUSE THE PEOPLE ARE GREAT ARTISTS THAT DESERVE MANY COMPLIMENTS AND HUGS.**  
>  The mental transition between Graves and Pretty as drawn by the _lovely_ qed221b!  
>  http://qed221b.tumblr.com/post/158437678862/ive-been-meaning-to-draw-something-from
> 
> This adorable piece depicting Pretty as drawn by a friend of and posted on the blog of rpless902 (I don't know the name of the artist)  
> http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/158158241889/rpless902-funkzpiel-my-friend-ada-did-this-art
> 
> And I think I shared this one in a previous chapter, but pspuser drew this lovely number:  
> http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/157123662359/pspuser-funkzpiel-love-your-work-sooo-much-and
> 
> And then there have been two artists who have drawn things on Lofter that a friend point out to me and that I haven't been able to contact yet to ask permission to share on here, but _bless you, you lovely lofter people_.
> 
> Like, I can't even begin to tell you how touched and loved and flattered and fucking honored I feel when you guys take time to do this sort of amazingness - you're so kind and supportive and just thank you so much.


	10. I Open At The Close

_“Say something, I’m giving up on you._

_I’ll be the one if you want me to._

_Say something, I’m giving up on you._

_I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.”_

 

If there was one thing that Newt knew for certain, it was that he would never forget this moment. For all the years he had left on this earth, he would never be able to erase from his mind the memory of Graves’ limp weight in his arms or the feel of how even in sleep, he trembled. He would never forget the burden of all those eyes on him as he carried the frail man through the various enclosures of his case, watching him like the attendants of a funeral dirge. He would never forget the alien brush of a tail slack against his legs, hanging limply from the torn seam of Graves’ pants.

Newt had once thought he could keep any creature safe inside the confines of his suitcase. It stung to be proven wrong.

The Mooncalves followed him all the way to the shed before, finally, Newt had to gently press them back. When the youngest calf – the one that Graves played with in the fields the most – bayed pitifully at him, eyes large and confused and worried, Newt felt his eyes burn wretchedly.

“You have to stay here, baby,” Newt said softly. “He needs to rest.”

It plopped down onto its bum at his feet, just outside the shed. Newt’d never forget its sad, lonely cry as it chirruped after him – hoping he’d come back or invite it along. Newt didn’t.

Instead, he just gently shouldered open the door to his strangely empty feeling shack and carried his burden inside. He set Graves on his belly, lest he put too much pressure on his new appendage while on his back. But it had the unfortunate consequence of reminding Newt constantly of his failure. Long and limp and stretching down the back of Graves legs – a hint of cheeks visible through the gaping hole left in his trousers from the transformation.

It was a simple matter to attend to him. A gentle flick of the wrist to send an enchanted note to Queenie outside, requesting she retrieve a Mediwizard. Another to summon a bowl of cool water and a rag for the fever now burning under Graves’ skin. Newt went through the motions with a detached, clinical proficiency – eager to bury his mind in the familiar motions of caring for a patient.

When the Mediwizards finally came, their words had not changed. They still had very little information they could garner from Graves' collar. All they could say was that for the moment, the collar appeared inactive except for the magic that kept it clasped around Graves' throat, fatal to remove. They leave as quickly as they came, their eyes soft and sympathetic, but also curious in a detached way that made Newt furious.

He brushed his fingers along the director’s sweaty brow and gently drew his bangs back from his skin. Beneath his touch, Graves whimpered – his brows drawn together – and finally he sighed, soothed. Newt felt his throat cinch tight, as though suddenly hung from some terrible noose he couldn’t free himself from; the weight of his inadequacy choking him.

He was just a Magizoologist. He wasn’t a doctor or a psychiatrist or even a trusted friend of the man that existed before _Pretty._ Newt was just a man, trying to do the right thing, with no idea of how to do that.

“I have never wanted to save anything as much as I want to save _you_ , Percival Graves,” Newt said, his voice barely giving life to the words over the pained hush of his breath. “I just wish I knew how.”

 

* * *

The doors slammed open to the execution chambers, and immediately Picquery was met with the rather chilling visage of their enemy’s demented smirking; eyes twinkling merrily all the while.

“So how does my boy look, Seraphina? Is he stunning? I bet that long black tail looks so lovely hanging above that pert little ass,” Grindelwald purred, a sharp edge of excitement to his voice that made Picquery’s blood boil. He sighed dreamily. “Does it wag as it should? Is he being a good boy while I’m gone? I imagine he is. I trained him right. Or at least, I thought I did. What pushed him over the edge? What made him finally use his magic?”

Picquery stomped her way to the edge of the platform, chin held high, and paused for a moment – her eyes cool and clinical as she took the other man in – before finally waving her hand to the room at large.

“Everybody out.”

The aurors around her froze.

“B-but Madam—“

“—Did I stutter?” Picquery said, and when her gaze fell upon the auror that had questioned her, said auror wilted visibly.

One by one, they filed past her; each more reluctant than the last. And all the while, Picquery and Grindelwald held each other’s gaze – two lions trying to make mice of one another.

The doors fell shut behind them with the sound of a nail sealing a coffin, and after, silence reigned.

“I have half a mind to kill you,” Picquery said with all the candor of someone pointing out that it was raining outside. “If ever a man deserved to die, it would be you, I think.”

Grindelwald’s smile stretched into a long, knowing slash of a grin. He rumbled, pleased, and said, “You triggered it, didn’t you? It was you.”

Picquery clenched her jaw and Grindelwald nodded – certain.

“It was. Oh, that couldn’t have worked out more perfectly if I had tried. You went to him, didn’t you? You went to see how extensive the damage is. To gauge your options. And what did he do…” Grindelwald trailed off, and when it was apparent that Picquery would not tell him, he continued. “He wouldn’t fight you, he’s too far gone for that; too timid. What would he do, what would my darling boy do – _ah_. He tried to run, didn’t he?”

Picquery didn’t so much as blink, her face as smooth as stone.

“You’re going to be executed, Gellert,” She said, letting the verdict hang between them. “I don’t need to be a Seer to know what the Ministry of Magic is going to do with you.”

“Does that make you happy?” Grindelwald asked, and in his eyes all Picquery could see was a cold and alien nothingness; black like a shark’s eye, white like the Obscurial’s had been when it died. It was strange to see a creature more clinical than herself – the end of a road she might’ve taken, once. She repressed the urge to shiver, barely.

“It is just.”

“Certainly,” Grindelwald said with a nod. “I’m sure the dead will appreciate the sentiment.”

“Their families will.”

“And what of _your family_ , my dear?” Grindelwald asked. “What of Percival Graves?”

“He knew the risks,” she said, but even to her the words sounded hollow, rehearsed.

“Yes, I’m sure he did. He was ready to die that night in the ally. Ready to die fighting trying to warn you of my coming,” Grindelwald mused. “I don’t think there’s a soul alive that would accuse that man of cowardice in the face of death, not when it came doing what his misguided mind thought was right. But did he truly know all the risks? Did he know he’d end up bouncing on my cock? Was that a _risk_ you warned him of?”

And when Picquery said nothing, he continued – voice soft and cold, all mocking gone.

“There will be no justice for him, Seraphina. In serving the light, your people will leave him in the dark. The changes I have made unto his body are permanent. Try as you might, you will not be able to unweave the work I’ve sown. He is mine, body and soul, and if I pass he will never come back to you. Is that how your justice works? Would you so easily sacrifice the man who raised you up? That followed you, advised you and protected you?”

Something in Picquery’s face must have twitched, because Grindelwald smiled softly, as a friend might.

“A lovely history you share, by the way. He was ready to die for you, you know…” Grindelwald trailed off, a curious look on his face. “Although I imagine he wouldn’t now. He’s rather frightened of you after what you did.”

At her side, Picquery’s fist clenched, but her face remained unchanged.

Grindelwald leaned forward, as though prepared to share a secret, and smiled darkly.

“I have another memory for you, Sera,” He purred, as though he had a gift behind his back rather than a knife. “Call it a parting gift, if you will. Would you like to see it?”

“No,” Picquery said, and across the dark puddle of the execution chamber, Grindelwald rose a single slender brow.

“No?”

“Your visions are naught but poison, Gellert,” Picquery said, “Terrors that bare no fruit. And I will imbibe no more. Unless you have something of actual use to reveal to me, then I believe we are done here. The officials from the Ministry of Magic will be here to gather you tomorrow. Do think long and hard about your request for your last meal. It’ll make it even more enjoyable when I give you gruel in its stead.”

She turned on heal and left him then, alone amongst the dark that might kill him, her coat billowing.

And all the while, Grindelwald’s amused laughter followed her – soft at first, but slowly growing.

“Good show, darling,” Grindelwald said, “What a wonderful third act before our grand finale. Well done.”

“ _Your_ grand finale, Gellert. Not ours,” she said once she reached the door.

She didn’t need to look back to know he was smiling.

“And you said we weren’t one in the same,” he purred. “How cute.”

Picquery ordered her aurors back to their posts and slammed the doors behind her. Her walk back to her office was a long one, not because of her exhaustion, which was fierce, or her weariness, which was great. Because of what waited for her on her desk.

Paperwork on what to do with one Percival Graves.

When finally the office doors closed behind her, she let her shoulders sag. She summoned a glass from the cart she rarely touched and filled it with the whiskey they had shared the day Picquery had been elected president. She can remember the fiery brown of his eyes as they say together on the floor of her new office and made promises about the future.

_“I will raise this country up like no other,” Picquery had said, ambitious and rowdy from the booze. “A community of prosperity where magic can flourish untouched, unafraid and unhindered - hand in hand with the blindfold we’ve placed upon the No-Majs. Safety for both of communities, and maybe one day something more.”_

_“I can drink to that,” Graves had said, his glass against hers. “And I will fight for that. You have me, Madam President. Just say the word.”_

_“Thank you, Percival,” she said. “Where would I be without you?”_

She stared down at the paperwork, fell into her seat, and for the first time in years, hung her head in shame.

“I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Newt cleaned the dishes the No-Maj way, not because he was tired, but because it gave him something to do with his hands. The water was hot against his skin, scalding his fingers a gentle pink. It hurt, it stung, but he didn’t change it. The pain rooted him to the present. Reminded him that he had gotten cocky, thinking he had figured out all of Grindelwald’s tricks. So he let the water scald him, unmindful of how it burned.

He didn’t stop until a soft whisper of sheets caught his attention. Percy was stirring. He shut off the water and turned on heel, both hands hidden beneath a dish towel as he dried them and murmured a soft healing spell, lest Percy see what he did.

When finally he looked up, he froze.

He found Percy crouched on the bed, the sheets low and slowly slipping down to pool around his knees – one hand out to urge Newt to stay where he was, the other occupied by a long, slender knife. The very knife he kept in his bedside table, lest any unwelcome visitors ever enter his case while he slept. It glimmered innocently in the air, held properly as a knife fighter might hold it. _Or a soldier_ , his mind helpfully supplied. Just as Theseus had taught Newt to hold it.

Despite the thinness of his frame, Graves looked powerful for the first time since Newt had met him. Shoulders back, arms tight and corded, his entire body braced for a fight. There was a heady sort of intensity in the man’s brown eyes. Hard and searing as they assessed Newt, scanning him from head to toe; judging him and finding him wanting.

Pretty was gone, and in his place was a man of great distinction. Newt swallowed, pinned beneath the eyes of a predator. Then, all at once, something in Graves deflated. A flicker of recognition passed over his fever-flush face, and for a moment, Newt hoped.

“Th-Theseus?” He breathed, his voice caught as if by some ghost. In his hand, the knife wobbled – but he held it all the same.

Newt tried to hide the flinch that flickered through his chest.

“N-no, that’s a common misunderstanding,” Newt said, falling into the habit of his usual introduction despite the weirdness of it. Despite the weirdness of re-introducing himself to a man who he had to coax from a closet. A man who he had bathed and shared a bed with and _almost **slept** with_. “I’m Newt Scamander. Theseus’ younger and rather underwhelming brother.”

“Newt,” Graves said, sampling the name on his tongue, eyes squinted in silent contemplation. “The…the Magizoologist.”

Newt blinked.

“Y-yes, but how did you--?”

“Your brother and I served in the same unit in the war,” he said, and it’s the longest, most concise sentence Newt has ever heard tumble so elegantly from the man’s lips. “He spoke of you often. Had your picture in his helmet… Are you…Have you been captured as well?”

“Oh! No, no, Pe—Mr. Graves, you’re safe, I assure you. We’re in my suitcase! Safe as safe can be,” Newt said, then had to bite back an amused and painful chuckle when Graves tilted his head at him just as Pretty would, his big ears perked, baffled.

“Your _suitcase_ ,” Graves reiterated slowly, as though the words might suddenly make more sense if said slowly.

“Yes,” Newt said. “Where I keep my creatures.”

Graves paled and his eyes instantly flicked to the door when, as if by cue, the Nundu roared mournfully from its enclosure beyond.

“I do hope you have your permits, Mr. Scamander. The procurement of beasts in New York is highly illegal in most instances,” Graves said, and Newt couldn’t help but feel something in his heart fracture. This was… This was the _real_ Percival Graves. Powerful and ready for a fight and clever as a whip. It was suddenly plain as day what had been taken from this world and from the man seated on his bed.

“If you’d kindly put down your knife, I’ll gladly tell you all about it,” Newt said softly, and when Graves finally lowered the weapon – _although he didn’t precisely let it go_ – Newt smiled and hoped his lower lip didn’t warble half as visibly as it felt.

He brewed a stiff cup of coffee for Graves and as he waited for it to seep, helped the man into a seat at the table after the director nearly fell flat on his face when he tried on his own. Weak, exhausted – legs like a newborn baby fawn.

When he turned to see Graves waiting patiently in his seat at the table, back straight and regal, he thought of Pretty those few nights ago, pert and eager on the floor.

_“W-what are you doing, Mr. Graves?”_

_“Being good.”_

His hands trembled when he set down the cup. Graves took a long, deep inhale from the cup's edge and shivered, muscles loosening gradually beneath the comfort of something familiar.

“So Grindelwald has been captured,” Graves reiterated. “He’s in MACUSA custody?”

“For now, yes,” Newt said. “Officials from the Ministry of Magic should be arriving tomorrow to take him for his trial in England, however.”

Graves slouched ever so slightly in his chair, and suddenly Newt became aware of a soft thump, thump, thumping sound. As though just realizing it for himself, Graves straightened as well. Both men followed the source down, down – down to where Graves’ tail was beating a happy tune against the legs of his chair. With a strangled grunt, Graves forced it to fall still, flushing horribly even as he straightened himself in his seat.

“Apologies,” Graves said.

“Nothing to apologize for. But that does remind me, we really should summon a healer again to see to you now that you’re back, Mr. Graves. They might be able to—“

“There’s no need, Mr. Scamander. I know more about this collar than any healer could ever tell me. There’s no point to them coming. They cannot help.”

Newt stiffened, the mug in his hands burning his calluses as he gripped it a little tighter.

“What do you mean? Y-you’re…You’re back.”

Newt watched as Graves slowly raised one hand to grab onto the tags that hung from his collar. Rather plain looking now that Newt looked at them. He frowned.

“I triggered another change,” Graves said, his voice a calm and soothing thing despite the nature of the subject. His gaze inward. “It takes a lot of magic to fuel that sort of transfiguration. I’m… I’m currently all tapped out, as it were. There’s nothing for the collar to pull from, and therefore I’m me. For the moment. The only magic left in it is the magic keeping it around my neck.”

“But if you’re magic causes these changes, why would Grindelwald hide it from you? Didn’t he want this to happen?” Newt asked, gesturing above his head where Graves’ ears rested. “Why make you believe it’s wrong to cast magic?”

Graves flinched minutely.

“It was a game, Newt. As a man, I didn’t want to instigate more changes. As Pretty, I… I didn’t understand the consequences. And just blindly instigating more changes wouldn’t be _fun_ , nor would the other mental aspects of the collar be able to function without magic to draw from, so he made a game of it. Told Pretty it was wrong. Against the _rules_. And waited to see how long until I failed.”

Silence fell between them. Newt bit his lip and thought of the horror on Pretty’s face when he had seen Picquery at Newt’s side.

_“But I was good! I was good, wasn’t I? Please, tell her I was good!”_

“Then… you’re going to disappear again?” Newt asked softly.

Something in Graves jaw clenched. He nodded.

“Yes. As my magic begins to recuperate, the tags will reactivate.”

“Why not just constantly wear out your magic, then?” Newt asked, suddenly inspired by the thought. Eager to help. Anything to help.

“Utilizing my magic is precisely what led to this,” Graves said, waving in the general direction of his ears. “One tag to keep me from using my magic. The other to siphon it away, changing me slowly into—into that _thing_.”

Newt flinched, at war with himself. Pretty wasn’t a thing. Pretty was precious. Kind eyes and a kind soul and a kind heart. Playful and loving and lonely. He thought of the creature he had shared a bed with and couldn’t help but feel insulted for Pretty.

But who had more of a right to condemn Pretty than the man who had been forced to become it?

“So Pretty is...what, some compulsion from the tag? If you removed the collar, would he just—“

“Disappear?” Graves asked, then scoffed – a stormy look on his face, eyes on the door of the little shed. “If only. No, he’s with me now… He’s… He’s well and truly part of me, just as inseparable as these blasted ears. Not that it matters. The only person capable of removing this collar is Grindelwald himself of his own free will, and I highly doubt he’ll be doing that anytime soon without some incentive of freedom. Where’s the fun in that?” He sneered, as though mimicking a far off memory.

“How long?” Newt asked.

“Unfortunately, my magical energies are quite… bountiful. Not long… Perhaps a day, if I’m lucky.”

“I should fetch the Madam President, then. I imagine you’d like to speak with her—“

 “Perhaps it’s not worth informing Seraphina,” Graves said softly, eyes inward, thinking. Newt balked.

“What?!”

“I don’t think she would do it… but he _will_ try to use me as a bargaining chip if she demanded he release me from my collar. The fact that he hasn’t offered it yet himself is perplexing, to say the least. There’s something here that I’m missing. What other information have you not told me?”

Newt shrugged.

“I haven’t been kept much in the loop myself, honestly. I was told to take care of you, that’s all.”

Reminded of his situation, Graves flinched.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “I’m sorry you’ve been burdened with my care. It’s not your responsibility to deal with the consequences of my inadequacies,” and _Jesus_ , Newt can’t do this. He can’t listen to this articulate man speak knowing that all these words, all these motions, all these things than make him _him_ are about to fade away beneath the mask of hazed brown eyes and a hopeful smile.

“First off, _you are not inadequate_. You’ve done nothing to deserve this. This is not some divine and fitting punishment. Second, it’s no trouble,” he said. “Caring for things is what I do.”

Graves looked out the open door of his little shed, eyes on the creatures milling about beyond.

“You can’t keep me, you know,” Graves said softly. “I’m not a Mooncalf.”

“I don’t aim to _keep_ any of my creatures, Mr. Graves. Rescue, rehabilitation and education. Those are the pillars of my life’s work.”

“You may not be able to rehabilitate me either, Newt,” Graves said, consoling Newt as though Newt were the one who needed comfort and not _him_ , the man who would soon slip away. “And that’s okay. This isn’t your fault.”

Newt jerked, as though struck.

“It’s _not_ okay! You don’t care if you get better?”

“Of course I care,” Graves said. “I just… I’ve seen enough cruelty in this world to know where this road is going… I want you to know that no matter what happens, this was not your fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault, either,” Newt said suddenly, brazenly, a fire lighting in his chest.

Graves grimaced.

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“Precisely,” Newt said, crossing his arms.

Graves blinked at him, then smiled – a small and genuine thing, fragile like Pretty’s but distinctly Percival Graves. And soon he would be gone.

In front of him, Graves blinked drowsily, but shook his head to resist the feeling. Exhausted from his depleted reserves, no doubt, even despite the coffee. The suggestion rose to Newt’s tongue, but he crushed it. That would be the last thing the man would want to do, he was sure. To waste his last few precious hours sleeping.

“Is there anything you’d like to do before…?”

Graves smiled, but it flickered warily beneath the weight of his grimace.

“How is my team doing?”

No ‘ _why didn’t they notice me_?’ No ‘ _did they even care?’_  No malice. Just genuine concern. Newt looked away. No wonder Tina struggled so much in Pretty’s presence.

“They miss you. They wear the guilt of what happened to you like a mantle. If Tina is anything to go by, they’ve all been working extra hours trying to find a way to help you. She’s barely been home for more than a few hours.”

Graves frowned and moved as though to rise, only to stumble back into his seat with a soft “oompf” and then a ragged hiss, face scrunched. It was only as he gingerly lifted himself and gently resumed his seat that Newt realized the man must have accidently sat on his tail. He shot him a sympathetic look.

“That’s unacceptable, they’ll run themselves ragged. They have families counting on them, and even the best wizard makes mistakes when they’re exhausted,” Graves said, then flinched. “I know that first hand. I won’t have one of them going home in a casket trying to fix something they can’t change.”

Graves rose one hand as though to summon parchment and pen to him, only to groan and clutch his head. Newt half rose from his seat, chair legs squealing loudly as he did so.

“Mr. Graves!”

“No, no,” Graves said, one hand raised to calm him, the other still pinching his nose. “That was my fault. I should have remembered. My point precisely about exhaustion… Mr. Scamander, if you would be so kind, would you send a note to Auror Goldstein requesting she start managing breaks among the team?”

“O-of course!” Newt said, flicking his wand to set the words unto parchment and send it on its way.

_The Director woke, for a moment. He requests that you ensure each member of the team receive adequate rest. His words precisely: “Even great witches and wizards make mistakes when exhausted.”_

“There, off it goes. Is there anything else you’d like to send, Director…?”

Newt trailed off as he returned his gaze to the man across the table, slumped back in his chair, one thumb still barely hooked on his nose from where he had been pinching it – dozing.

Newt rose silently to stand beside him, one hand at his shoulder to rouse him gently.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt said when the man sucked in a sudden breath and opened his eyes wide, staring at him as though he’d grown a second head. “Perhaps you should take your own advice.”

Graves grunted, but shook his head.

Newt nodded, understanding.

“Let’s get you back into bed, at least. Okay?”

“Okay,” Graves said softly as Newt gently took him by the elbow and helped him stand.

He took him to the bed and assisted him back into it. Sat at his bedside and traded drowsy stories with the man that no one had noticed was gone. And he couldn’t for the life of him understand how any friend of Percival Graves could have missed the obvious differences between him and the terror that had stolen his skin. Percival Graves was a warm, if somewhat distant man. Genuine and caring. Eager to take responsibility for mistakes and eager to pass praise onto others. Newt listened as Graves told him of his brother and the war, and suddenly Newt realized that he _knew_ Percival Graves. That he had in fact heard these stories before, only Theseus called him Cap or Captain rather than Percival or Percy or Graves.

 _He knew this man_. He knew this man as his brother’s _brother in arms_. His best friend. The man that helped get him through the war. Percival Graves had taken a bullet for Theseus – the story behind the medal that was never told in England, but Theseus never stopped telling every damn day.

 _“Yes, I saved half a dozen men, but if Cap hadn’t taken that shot for me, none of us would have made it,"_ Theseus would always say.

“He rather enjoys embellishing that story, doesn’t he?” Graves said, lashes soft and flickering over his eyes even as he soldiered on to remain conscious. “Yes, I’m the man who took a bullet for your brother. We had fallen behind enemy lines, pinned by a bunch of No-Majs. We were all exhausted. Barely a scrap of magic left between the whole unit. I didn’t have the energy to push him out of the way with a spell or disarm the enemy soldier… So I took the bullet instead.”

“You’re a foolish man, Percival Graves,” Newt said, throat suddenly tight.

“I—“

Newt cut him off before he could demean his own self worth or the value of his actions. Instead, Newt just grabbed his wrist and squeezed.

“Thank you for making sure my brother came back home.”

Graves blinked, then nodded, a soft flush on his cheeks – although Newt didn’t know if it was from the fever or his inability to take a compliment or praise of any sort. Graves clenched his jaw, then:

“He had your picture in his helmet, you know. One of your family, then one specifically of you with a…a Hippogriff, I think he called it. Beautiful looking beast. Seemed to love you a lot.”

_Beautiful looking beast._

“She was beautiful,” Newt said, clearing his throat. “Daisy. Sweet as pie. Colored like pie, too. Gorgeous tans and golds, with a few crest feathers the color of blackberries. The sweetest Hippogriff I’ve ever met. I miss her every day.”

“She sounds lovely,” Graves said, his voice growing gruff the longer he struggled against sleep. “Although Daisy is a rather strange name for a Hippogriff.”

Newt chuckled.

“We found her as a fawn in a field of daisies. But if that bothers you, you would have died if you knew what I called the Thunderbird I rescued.”

“Heavens help me, what pitiful name did you give to the creature representing one of the houses of my school, pray tell?”

Newt smiled in anticipation.

“Frank.”

Graves made a show of clutching his chest, a soft grunt of fake pain falling from his lips.

“Frank! Tina would die if she knew.”

“She does know, she met him.”

“Oh, Frank is _that_ Thunderbird,” Graves said, no doubt going through the story Newt had just told him. “I can see the headlines now. Frank The Thunderbird Saves New York.”

“Well, what would _you_ name him if you’re such a pro at it?”

Graves made a show of thinking, before finally becoming somewhat somber.

“Hinun,” he said softly. “The spirit of the storm.”

“Oh,” Newt said, in awe of how well thought out the answer was. “You’ve considered the names of Thunderbirds often, have you?”

Graves chuckled.

“Hinun is the Thunderbird that represents one of Ilvermorny’s houses. The spirt of the storm, the spirit of adventure. The bird that brings the great rains,” Graves said softly as the moments where his eyes fell closed grew a little longer and a little longer. “Seems fitting is all.”

“Yes,” Newt agreed, his eyes soft as he watched the man who had saved his brother struggle to stay awake. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for the next Thunderbird I meet.”

Graves sucked a small, soft breath through a tiny smile.

“Good. You’ll need a name for the permits anyways.”

Newt laughed.

“Good night, Mr. Graves. Rest well.”

And before Newt could rise, Graves caught him by the wrist – brown eyes sleepy, but suddenly clear.

“Thank you.”

_For taking my burden off my mind. For helping me. For staying._

Newt smiled and fought back the burning growing behind his eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Newt.”

“Yes?”

“Tell…tell Picquery that I don’t blame her. She’ll know what I mean.”

Newt felt his lips pull into a long, fine line.

“Mr. Graves—“

“Please.”

“…Okay.”

“Okay,” Graves whispered as sleep finally pulled him away yet again.

And in his passing, Newt stood at his bedside and trembled.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Graves woke again. But his magic was returning, slowly but surely – they both knew it. They see it in the blank moments of pause where Graves forgot where he is – in a sentence, in general – but it doesn’t stop them from using the most of Graves’ time _as Graves_ as possible. Again, Newt asked if Graves would like to see anyone while he could. Picquery, Tina… Or if he’d like to try and visit the Mediwizards again on the off chance that they could glean something from him while cognizant.

“No,” he said. “You can tell them, when I’m gone. I don’t want to waste a second sitting in a hospital bed. If this… I want to enjoy this time while I can. I’d just distract my men, if I went to them now. I can’t help, I can barely stand. I can’t go out into New York looking like this. So this is for the best, I think. If you don’t mind putting up with me a little longer, that is?”

“Of course.”

Newt asked Graves what his favorite meal was, hellbent on making a night of it if the man was so close to fading away. His needs were simple, just as Newt expected. A cut of steak, grilled in pepper and spices. Some potatoes. A tumbler of whiskey.

Newt retrieved them all, leaving him for but a moment in the company of Dougal and strangely, the Niffler. The Niffler, with his oddly shaped pouch. Newt made a mental note to check that when he returned.

They made a night of it. He set the table with his nice dishes he never used. Took the time to cook the steak the No-Maj way outside his little hut, shooing away Mooncalves that strayed too close to the grill.

“They’re certainly clingy little fellows, aren’t they?” Graves said, crossed legged in the grass with three fleecy babies all nestled in his lap gurgling happily. One particular Mooncalf kept running up to Graves and head butting him playfully before galloping back into the field, always pausing to look back at him sadly when Graves did not follow. Graves frowned.

“Have I done something wrong?” He asked.

Not, ‘ _What’s wrong with that bloody Mooncalf?’_ Not, _‘Make it stop.’_

 _“Was I bad?”_ Echoed in his head. Around his throat, Newt felt the noose draw tighter.

Newt hid his face behind the grill he had managed to procure and barely gets out the words without choking.

“He’s rather fond of…the other you. You play often.”

“Oh,” Graves said. But he doesn’t hold it against the little creature. The next time it comes to him, he grabs it gently around its shoulders and pulls it to sit beneath his arm. Tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the Mooncalf’s soft, downy fleece in the other. Skin warmed by the sunshine, lap full of babies.

“This is nice,” Graves said.

“Yes,” Newt agreed as he flipped the steaks. “Yes it is.”

They ate inside, away from the creatures that might pick off their plates.

Newt couldn't help but watch as Graves ate with a fork and knife as any man would, struggling only occasionally with his grip, and Newt swallowed dryly, knowing how much he lost, how much he would lose again.

“I think it’s an amazing thing that you do here, Mr. Scamander,” Graves said as he sipped his whiskey – his third glass. There was a merry tint to his cheeks. A gentle haze to his eyes that felt familiar. Newt couldn't help but wonder if the line between Percy and Pretty was thinner than Graves let on, because he could see Pretty’s smile in the genuine way the man held himself. Perhaps it was the whiskey. Perhaps it was the magic.

Perhaps it was the man, the bits of him he crushed down so he could lead.

“T-thank you,” Newt said. “Truly. Not many people understand the work I do or why I do it.”

“They’re rather foolish then, wouldn’t you agree?” Graves said after finishing another morsel of steak, holding it in his mouth – savoring it. “Fear only comes from the unknown. If we better understood these creatures, then maybe things could be different. When you publish your book, you should send it to Ilvermorny. I know a professor there that would be more than happy to include it in his curriculum. John Gates. He’s rather of a similar mind as you. You’d get along quite well.”

Newt swallowed and dropped his fork, making it clatter louder on his plate before hiding his face in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Newt, what’s wrong?” Graves said, suddenly straight in his chair and alert. Newt trembled as the man’s chair legs squealed against the floor, and in a moment, Graves was beside him. Large hands at his shoulders, pulling his attention to him.

“Newt, are you alright?”

“I don’t want you to go,” Newt whispered, unable to look at him. Unable to see the face of the man he couldn’t figure out how to save. “I want to help you so badly, but I—“

“Newt, look at me. _Newt_ ,” Graves said until he had the man’s full attention, then offered him an encouraging smile. Nothing large. Nothing fake or delluded. It was the smile of a man that knew precisely what was happening, how shitty a hand fate had given him, and was choosing to smile anyways. For him. For _Newt_. The smile was a kind smile. Small, quirking more so on one side than the other, and Newt suddenly pictured himself an auror being seen off on a mission by the man and blinked, his vision suddenly blurry.

Graves squeezed his shoulders a little more firmly.

“What happened to me is _my fault_ —“ Graves started, obviously dead set on ensuring Newt removed himself from responsibility, but all it did was make Newt rise to his feet, startling the director into taking a step back.

“Your fault?” Newt exclaimed in a furious whisper. “ _Your fault_?”

“I am the director of Magical Security. I should have—“

“Regardless of who you are or what you should have done, that monster had no right to do what he did to you. You’re a human being, not some _ball of clay_ for him to play God with as he chooses. Your life should not be the consequence of a mad man’s machinations!”

Silence fell but for the heavy breathing from Newt’s outburst. Graves had the good grace to look admonished, but Newt didn’t want that either. He squirmed in place, uncomfortable with the silence.

“Mr. Graves, I’m so—“

“Thank you, Newt.”

Newt blinked.

“For what? You shouldn’t have to thank me for believing in what’s right—“

“Not for that.” Graves says. “Thank you for caring so much. But I really wish you wouldn’t.”

Newt flinched.

“What…?”

“There’s a reason why I didn’t tuck anyone away in my helmet all those years ago. All I do is hurt people,” Graves said. “And you deserve better than that.”

“Y-you don’t even know me,” Newt said.

“I do. You’re Theseus Scamander’s little brother. You’re the man who saved New York. Who saw Grindelwald for what he was. Who risked his life for innocent creatures. Who takes in the things the world would rather turn their back to and gives them a second chance. I know you, Newt Scamander,” Graves said. “And you deserve better than the misery I’ll surely bring you.”

“You, you’re—You’re an utterly infuriating man, you know that.”

Graves smiled, a soft and weary thing.

“So I’m told.”

 

* * *

 

Graves woke to the gentle, domestic sound of snoring. His eyes fluttered open to rest upon the slack face mere inches from his nose, dark ginger lashes flush against sharp cheeks and more freckles than stars in the sky. Newt had fallen asleep in the chair beside the bed again, his arms crossed on the sheets, pillowing his cheek. Once upon a time if Graves had woken to this face across from him, he would have felt excited. He would have leaned forward to press a soft kiss to each off those closed eyelids. He would have worshipped those freckles with his lips and moved to frame him between his forearms. He would have woken the man softly, foreheads pressed together as his hand slipped beneath the soft band of his pajama bottoms.

Instead, he felt nothing but isolation, a fleeting terror as he understood that this too would soon be gone.

He wouldn’t be around much longer to feel much of anything.

He rose from the bed silently, careful not to wake Newt, before slipping into the bathroom. He thought of leaving. Sparing the man from the misery of watching Graves slip away again. But where would he go? To Picquery, where she might then feel too guilty to resist a deal from Grindelwald? To the Mediwizards who would study him to no avail? There was no place to go.

Nowhere but one, back into the depths of his mind where the collar kept him wrapped in suffocating darkness. Down, down, down – where nothingness pressed in on him like the sea, black and heavy and fathomless. Where all rational thought drowned and _Pretty_ rose like bubbles in the water to fill the cracks he left behind. Dregs of himself he had thought long gone.

He clenched the porcelain edge of the sink in either hand and squeezed, head bowed, unable to raise it and look at the evidence of his weakness. To take in once more the ears that marred his head, even as he felt them twitch. Even as his tail tucked against his leg. Even as he felt Pretty simmering beneath the surface – stirring, slowly waking. A soft, mangled whine threatened to escape his throat, but he bit his knuckle before it could. Blood blossomed in his mouth, coppery and tangy. He gagged.

He remembered the alley, the moment of his downfall. The ache of being hit by that car, the burn of his eyes from the headlights. Grindelwald’s hands on his body, training him to obey, to respond, to _like it_. Peeling layers of him away like an onion until only the soft and fragile bulb remained.

Red stained the perfect white of Newt’s sink, another thing he ruined. Another scar he’s left behind for someone else to find.

And finally when he rose his head to look up at his reflection, it was not his face he saw, but the face that Grindelwald had stolen. The face he had become. The face he could never purely own when so many others had worn it too. And even so, no one noticed. Was it really even his face, anymore? Were his brown eyes his, or the cold sneer of Grindelwald’s possession, or the gentle width of Pretty’ confused stare? The only thing he knew for sure was that the ears belonged to one thing and one thing only, and at the end of the day, Pretty would be the only one to survive the game Grindelwald and Graves had started.

He brushed his fingers along the seam of skin that joined the alien appendages to his head. He tugged the tips until he had to bite his cheek from the pain because _it hurts, it hurts, please don’t, it hurts. I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I’m sorry. I’ll be good._

He pulled his hands back as though burned, and in the mirror Pretty’s wide and fearful gaze stared back at him. Hurt and scared and uncertain. He stumbled back until his thighs hit the tub’s edge, knocking something into its large basin with a clatter. Graves froze, stiff and silent, but nothing stirred beyond the bathroom door. Newt remained blessedly asleep. He turned to retrieve the item, only to stop as he realized what it was.

Suddenly, his palms itched.

His shoulders felt heavy, his head a weight he could barely hold up. The collar a tight and ever present reminder of his failure, strangling him softly. His body trembled. His breathing thready. He wouldn’t be the domino that set Grindelwald free. He wouldn’t be the pawn that ended the world. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t slip away again.

He couldn’t.

 _‘What if…?_ ‘ He thought, and snatched the item from the bottom of the tub.

_What if…_

* * *

 

Newt woke with a start to the sound of a high pitched, dog-like whine, and then the sound of something altogether deeper – a wretched, desperate sob quickly bitten off into silence. He jerked upright, eyes on the space beside him where Pret— _where Graves_ should have been, only to find it empty.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt called out, heart slamming viciously in his chest. He climbed out of his chair in a scramble of long legs and flailing arms and a dread filled belly before finally noticing Dougal on his work table, watching the bathroom with round, sad eyes. He had something clutched tight in his long, silken fingers – a needle and thread. The very same needle and thread Newt commonly used for stitches.

His stomach dropped.

He sprung for the bathroom, only to freeze in the doorway, eyes wide.

He found Graves huddled on the floor in the small space between the toilet and the wall, the right side of his neck a mess of red, Newt’s straight razor biting partially through the thick leather of his collar and subsequently, his neck. Eyes wide and frantic and wet. Overwhelmed.

“Stay where you are,” Graves said.

Newt exposed his empty hands before him, both in a gesture of good faith and to urge him to stop. With a sick flop of his stomach, Newt realized why the moment felt so familiar. He could see it now – the sight of Graves backed into the closet, eyes wide and wild and feral. Afraid. He thought of the sound of the man growling at him from behind all those clothes and felt something flinch in his chest.

He knew how to handle and calm a cornered creature. Newt was no stranger to that.

But a man… Man was unpredictable. Fallible. Complex.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt said calmly, trying to still the trembling building in his hands and throat. “Put the razor down.”

“I’m almost done,” Graves said, but from the way his eyes grew distant, Newt knew the words weren’t for his benefit. “Almost done.”

The razor dug a little deeper and Newt felt his stomach twist sickly. Surely the collar had been enchanted against harm, if the leather hadn't split like butter beneath the blade yet. But even so, Newt watched with growing anxiety as the collar gave a little more, the knick from the blade growing.

“Graves, put the razor down,” Newt said gently and took a step forward. He barely stopped the anguished noise that threatened to slip from his throat when all that did was encourage Graves to press himself more firmly into the corner, the hand around the razor trembling and pale beneath all that red.

 “Percy,” he tried. “Percy, _look at me.”_

 Graves’ gaze flicked to him, and for a moment Newt felt as though he might drown in the desperation of that stare. It punched the air from his lungs and left him gasping. Graves’s lips pursed, bracing himself, and he sawed a little deeper, his brows drawn tight – fat tears finally spilling from his lashes. A small bloom of red sparks danced over his fingertips and finally, Graves let out a hoarse little cry.

“Hells bells, Percy, _stop!_ If you do that, it’ll kill you!”

And then something clear cut through the haze of panic in Graves’ eyes; his gaze suddenly a cold and heavy burden that Newt wasn’t sure he could bear. It took only a moment for the realization to hit him in one grand flood of understanding, crushing him beneath the revelation that _Graves knew full well what would happen._

“You know,” Newt whispered hoarsely.

“I will not be the reason why that madman goes free,” Graves snarled softly, firmly, low beneath his breath like a vow. “I will not be the bargaining chip that keeps that man alive. I will not put Picquery in that position. Justice comes first.”

“Killing yourself ensures nothing!” Newt cried out, drawing the room to a pregnant silence – their angry breathes and the sound of blood dripping all that hung between them. Newt tried to hold firm, but the longer he stared at those unconvinced eyes, the more he felt his mask crumble. Tears seared at the bottoms of his eyelids and he found he could no longer hold them back.

Graves blinked, then flinched.

“Newt, don’t—“

“—What does your death buy us? He could still escape. With or without you as a bargaining chip, he could still escape.” And then, softly, as he realized it, “And you know that…don’t you.”

Graves’ lips pressed themselves into a long, thin line, and Newt knew. _He knew_.

“You don’t want to fight anymore.”

“Can you blame me?” Graves asked, and Newt found his eyes drawn to the glimmer of the razor in Graves’ hand. “Could you do it, Newt? Could you sit in that bed and twiddle your thumbs knowing that with every moment, you’re running out of time? Fading away, lost beneath the heavy weight of that _thing_ that he twisted you to become. Can you blame me for wanting to die as Percival Graves rather than spend the rest of my life begging for scraps of affection and a good dick between my legs?”

Newt flinched.

“You’re getting better,” Newt tried, softly – the reasoning weak even to his own ears.

Graves laughed, harsh and bitter and frantic.

“By what standard?”

Newt bit his lip, his heart a sinking stone in his chest.

“Please, just let me try!”

“You can’t fix me, Newt. Not without jeopardizing the safety of our community, and I won’t let you or Picquery or anyone else put me before the safety of this country. I won’t.”

“So…what? That’s it? You’re just going to give up?”

“Would you blame me?” Graves asked again, the silence only broken by the creak of leather slowly giving beneath the knife.

“No,” Newt said. “I wouldn’t. But I’m begging you, _please_. Let me try.”

“Why?” Graves asked, and Newt stilled. “Even if you succeeded, I could never truly be free. I can’t go outside like this, lest I expose the very community I vowed to protect. I can’t lead my team like this, my mind tampered as it is. I can’t _focus,_ Newt. The life I knew is gone. This might be my last chance. So tell me why I shouldn’t take it.”

Newt trembled. What was there to say? He couldn’t make him want to live.

But he wanted to. Oh how he wanted to.

Newt scrubbed fiercely at the tears running down his cheeks and braced himself. Made himself tall and confident and proud. He stood his ground and said, “Because you deserve better too, Percival Graves. You deserve more than a casket and a funeral with honors. You deserve to survive this. You deserve to live the life you want to live, whether it’s here or at MACUSA or somewhere else entirely. But you deserve to live. I want you to live,” then finally, a soft and pleading whisper. “Please live. Don’t let him win.”

Something soft and warm and worried flickered through Graves’ for just a moment, cutting through his grief, his sentience.

“Why are you crying?” Pretty asked. “Did I do something bad—“ The sentence dragged, then fell to silence as Graves returned. He kept the knife at his throat and with his other hand, hid his face. He curled in tighter on himself, suddenly so small looking in comparison to the man Newt had spent the last 24 hours getting to know. Small and fragile and shaking. Curled in a ball in the corner of Newt’s bathroom, weeping silently lest someone know.

When finally Newt tried to approach him again, Graves didn’t stop him. Just let him pluck the razor from his hand and gently ease it from the marred flesh of his neck and the little groove in his collar. Newt immediately turned the razor to dust, the blade falling like sand to the floor as he drew Graves into him and let out a relieved breathe, close to a sob. He pressed his hands against Graves’ throat and willed it to heal beneath his touch. Grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him close.

“Please, please, please,” Newt whispered into the top of his hair. “Let me try.”

“Okay,” Graves whimpered into his shoulder.

Newt closed his eyes, let his tears burn his cheeks, and smiled weakly.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really, really struggled with this one. Everything I wrote felt like utter shit. I can't tell you how many times I wrote and re-wrote and re-wrote this. In the end, I finally have a product I'm content with. I wish more for it, but I'm content. I need to do another pass of edits on it - but I wanted to just POST IT before I chickened out and put it through another re-write. So please be gentle about the grammar. XD I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took so long. At least its a hefty chapter? XD
> 
> As always, thank you so, so, so much for all your comments and support and kind words. They mean so much to me, and I can't even tell you how important that encouragement has been. Your praise gives me the courage to keep going even when I can't get the chapter to work. So thank you so, so much, for taking the time to write to me. It means so much.


	11. The Lion of the Ministry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to Ro & QED, who have been so kind as to beta both chunks and the full chapter for me as I exploded into an anxious mess of nonsense too many times to count.

They stayed in the bathroom for a long time, just Newt and Graves. And all the while, Newt couldn’t help but feel as though he were holding a man made of sand, little bits of Graves shivering away between his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. He ran his fingers through Graves’ sweaty hair, fingers gentle around the place where his ears joined his scalp. He gently cleaned his neck with a warm towel until the flesh of Graves’ throat was visible again - whole and perfect, as though the knife had never kissed it.

He led Graves back to bed after a long time, easing him into the sheets with the same delicacy of someone saying goodbye and hoping it wouldn’t be the last time the words were exchanged. He slipped into the sheets beside him, nearly forehead to forehead, and watched him. Wound their fingers together as though he could tether Graves to this mortal plane, afraid to lose the man in his sleep again if he didn’t touch him. He waited for a reprimand. For Graves to shake him off.

It never came.

And in the eyes that he had met the previous morning - so fierce and brown and brave - he saw nothing but fear and a distinct understanding of the inevitable; and Newt had to bite his lip not to whimper. In his last moments, heart seized with fear as it was, Graves held onto Newt’s fingers tight and tried to stay. But every shiver shook another inch of him loose, unraveling like the pulled stitching of a fine sweater. Newt felt his heart racing in their entangled fingers.

Newt felt him slip away. 

When he woke, Graves was gone. Replaced by big, wet brown eyes that stared at him, fingers of his free hand crushed to his mouth lest he wake him. 

“I’m sorry,” Pretty whispered into his knuckles.

Newt could not find it in his heart, empty and cold and drained as he felt, to smile. Not when he was eye to eye with the creature that served as Graves’ prison. Not when he had been holding onto the man, _the real man_ , mere hours ago. 

Maybe in an hour, he thought to himself. Maybe in an hour he’d have the energy to smile and comfort this sad little beast. This soft-hearted shadow of a man that no more deserved this pain than his originator. Maybe, but not right now.

He blinked and whispered, “I know,” and gently pulled away. 

He didn’t look back as he stood to go about his morning routine. Missed the way Pretty then curled his empty hand - the hand that had been holding Newt’s - desperately into the soft feel of Newt’s borrowed sleep shirt. The way he ducked his chin and closed his eyes. The way he turned to his other side to face the wall and shivered. 

By the time Newt looked back, he simply appeared asleep.

By the time Newt looked back, he missed the tears Pretty slipped into the bed - silent, as he had been trained. 

 

* * *

 

Picquery traced the lip of her whiskey glass, eyes lost to the world — distant beneath the gentle hum of her idle fingers. Aurors awaited her direction. Newspapers awaited her statement. The people of New York awaited her lead.

But she had nothing to tell them, any of them. She had no idea of what to do. Only… that wasn’t quite true. She knew what was right. What was wrong. But what was right was oftentimes not what was easy. 

Her office was dark and barren — the strong walls she once felt emboldened by, now bars that suffocated her, drowned her, buried her. Her desk felt like the cover of a casket, and on its lid balanced two glasses. Hers, and the one she poured out for her friend. Just in case tradition was actually worth something.

But still she sat in her office, and despite herself, forced a moment of peace. She closed her eyes and instilled in herself silence rather than worry, selflessness rather than pride, and forced herself to be calm. To still the raging tides of her mind. Her fingers danced around the thick glass rim, their fever pitch a rising note to sink beneath. She fell into the darkness and sought out her better half - or at least, the memory of him.

A chuckle, loose and familiar, broke her from her thoughts. And slowly, she opened her eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Sera?” Graves asked from the other side of her desk — sleeves rolled up, neck tie loose, top collar button popped. Percival as she knew him. No ears or watery, worried eyes. Just the firm jaw and steadfast gaze she remembered. Whiskey glass protected in the gentle cradle of his hands, half full like hers. She took a generous sip and he raised a brow with a faint whistle. “That bad, huh.”

“I need your help,” she said softly, lest someone overhear her mental downfall. “But I failed you. And because of me, I don’t have you at my side when I need you most.”

“You don’t need me, Sera,” Graves said gently, leaning forward onto his elbows so he might better catch her eye. Earnest in a way her Director of Magical Security could never be outside closed doors. “You know what’s right and what’s wrong. You know what to do. You just need to decide what path you’re going to take.”

“You make it sound so simple,” she said sourly. He always did. Graves had a way of laying decisions bare, exposing the cores of them. She missed him fiercely, now.

“Isn’t it?”

She took a gentle breath, and even she could scent the heavy kiss of whiskey on it. “The Ministry is coming. I’m running out of time.”

Running out of time to make decisions. Running out of time to salvage the situation. Running out of time to save him. Graves just tilted his head and waited.

“They’ll take him away,” she said pointedly. As though this explained everything. And in a way, it did. This Graves before her was but a figment of her imagination. He knew what she knew. She could make him say anything she wanted. But a knowing look in his face told her what she already knew. She could make him say anything, sure — but would she believe it? She knew what her Graves would _truly_ say. Her imagination couldn’t change that.

But she tried though. Oh how she tried. She imagined him saying what she wanted him to say. 

“That doesn’t have to happen,” Graves said, but there was a staleness to his eyes. A stoney quality to his face. A farceness to his voice. “You could keep him. Continue to grill him for information. And when you’ve sucked him dry of everything you want to know, you could kill him. He committed crimes in your city, your country. You could. It would save your reputation. It would prove to the nation that you’re American first. It would show you’re no pushover, that you don’t take breaches of security on American soil lightly. Handling his punishment first hand would solidify you as a leader to be reckoned with. And it would mean that America did what the rest of the world failed to do — bring a stop to Gellert Grindelwald. It would be easy. Just turn the Transfer Team from the Ministry away when they come.”

His image flickered. A darkness in the shadows of his face that went against every memory of him she had. This was not him. This was not the man who served as her center, her north star — guiding her through the dark of some of her more difficult decisions. This wasn’t Percival Graves. It was merely the illusion of him, wrapped like a bow around the package of what she wanted to hear. Because taking what she wanted was so easy. But doing what was right…

She thought about her friend and what he would say. Imagined his face calm and confident. His back straight with purpose. The softness of his aura beside her at the war table, merely pointing out facts rather than ever really trying to sway her opinion. He had not helped her become President to make her a puppet, after all. She knew that. He did not want to lead, he did not want that burden — but nor did he want that burden to crush her. She knew what he would say, what warnings he would give. It was easy to imagine it.

“As is their right to take him. He is a European citizen with prior warrants in their jurisdiction,” Graves pointed out now in a very calm, Graves like fashion; so unlike the forced impression of him she had just tried, and Picquery scowled. “Handing him over to our sister nation would prove that we’re team players. That the safety of the world comes first and that America understands that. It would help us foster relationships internationally and would help bring the magical community together. Obviously a world without tragedy is better, but if there is one good thing that comes from events like this, it’s that it brings us together. It’s a shame that’s what it takes, but standing up now and doing what’s right shows that America can think beyond its own borders. That we steadfastly respect the law. There’s more at stake than just one country or just one man. You know that.”

“And what of our jurisdiction? What about the acts of atrocity he performed on our turf? American citizens want retribution. You more than anyone should want retribution. What about… What about _you_ , Percival?”

“What about me?” He asked, as though asking a question no more mundane than ‘ _what time is it?’_

“If I let them take him, you’ll likely be lost to us. Permanently. But… I know that you would rather that, than let that madman get away because we tried to bargain with him… The city of New York, Europe — the entire magical community as we know it — is braying for Grindelwald’s blood. Justice cannot step aside for one man. _I_ cannot stop for one man.” She swallowed, and when next she spoke, her voice was soft with regret. “Even if that man is the closest thing I have to a friend now-a-days.”

And to her surprise, her dear friend smiled. Soft and fond, and she couldn’t help but think of the night they spent on this very floor when they were young and foolish aurors - talking about the future, about how they’d change things. Young and inspired.

“What are you smiling about?” She barked.

“You’ve grown, Sera,” he said.

“Don’t be daft,” she sneered — because this wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. She was only hoping she had changed. Only wishing. She looked at his face, searching for an echo of the darkness that had seeped onto his face when she had forced him to say what she wanted to hear before. But it was not there. His face was soft with friendship. Lines around his eyes aging him, his job aging him. The way he had looked the last time she had shared drinks with him, before… before he had been stolen out from under her very nose. Patient, supportive. Earnest.

“You have,” he insisted.

She scowled at him, unimpressed.

“Not enough,” she said. “I sentenced a boy to death. I couldn’t save you. Didn’t even _notice_ you were gone. You… You wouldn’t have done those things. You would have succeeded where I failed. You should be sitting in this seat, not me.”

Percival shook his head and leaned a little closer.

“You’ve become a leader, Sera. Whether you believe it or not. This entire conversation has been about justice, about the safety of others, about your own failures that you need to take responsibility for. No power plays, no political strategy. Not thoughts of _how do I get out of this politically unscathed_. You’ve grown. You’re becoming a leader. The leader New York deserves. The leader I knew you could be. I’m proud of you.”

Something hot ran down her cheek, and Picquery flinched. A quick, startled jab revealed it to be a tear - gritty and warm on her fingers. She sucked in a tight breath and closed the thought down quick before it could ruin her. This had to be what she wanted to hear. This had to be her own mind’s doing. Because no man who has suffered what Graves has suffered would forgive her like this. But when she looked up, it was him. He reached out and cupped one of her hands gently. Brushed a thumb across the back of it like he used to, just once. Then he squeezed it tight before pulling away. And it felt like losing him all over again.

“I need you,” she whispered.

Graves stood with a smile and set his glass atop the desk where it had originally sat, never having actually moved. 

“No you don’t, Sera. You know what you have to do.”

And when she looked up, he was gone. But in her heart there was a sore fullness. Aching from loss, but full of purpose. She wiped her tears and set her glass down, determined not to finish it.

“Okay, Percival,” she said beneath a shaky breath. “Okay.”

A red paper mouse scurried to her fingertips and unfolded, revealing the white ink within.

_The Official Transfer Team from the Ministry of Magic has arrived, Madam President._

She rose and let the note fall from her palm in a small trickle of dust. She straightened her collar and held her chin high; not as high as she once did, but more assured. Less brazenly. She whispered a gentle sobering charm and swept away from her desk.

Maybe she could not save Percival Graves, but she could honor his memory.

She could do what was right.

 

* * *

 

Picquery watched them assault the hall leading to her office with high chins and swift, clicking footsteps that echoed like a maelstrom. Each man shoulder to shoulder, staggered, forming a wall that engulfed the hall before her. Each step a nail that sealed Graves’ coffin a little tighter and a little tighter, and in her chest, she felt her breath dry out to nothing. But she kept her back straight and her chin high and her eyes ahead, because a President cannot pause for one man. A President cannot fall and mourn one man. A President cannot have regret for one moment. A President is one body for many, not one heart for one.

A President cannot have friends.

When finally the aurors from the Ministry of Magic came to a halt, heels clicked together in formal greeting and chins dipped in respect, she couldn’t help but feel herself a woman cornered by lions. The aurors at her back — _Percival’s aurors_ — felt like wolves; fangs bared and eyes glimmering, watching her, waiting for her to fall. Waiting to strike a vengeful blow. And finally, her mantle as President a snake that wound itself around her neck and tightened.

She tried to imagine Percival’s calming presence at her back. Tried to draw strength from his memory. But all she could see when she closed her eyes was his look of horror when she came to visit him. And her gut clenched, knowing she’d have to leave him that way.

“Hello again, Madam President,” came a voice. She cleared her throat and shook the image from her mind. Eyes falling upon a familiar face. Hazel eyes and freckled skin. Broad, taller than his brother. Where Newt was a wisp of a seed on the wind, Theseus was the roots of a tree in the ground. He tried to smile, she could see that much, but it was a stiff and formal line that split his face — and she could not manage much better. She tipped her chin to him minutely instead.

“Director Scamander,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, not since Percy’s promotion, I believe,” Theseus said, and she nearly felt struck. Between them, the words hung heavy — plain as day: _he was under your command, and look where he is now._

She took a moment to collect her thoughts, her gaze sweeping across the small collection of British aurors blandly, before finally she spoke again.

“The Ministry only sent five wizards to collect the very dark wizard that effectively alluded them for months?” She asked, allowing herself this one and only barb. It didn't satisfy her, however. Her heart still hung hollow in her chest.

Something in Scamander’s jaw tightened, but his tone remained cool and collected.

“No, the Ministry sent thirty aurors in total to deliver Grindelwald to justice. Twenty five of them are currently ensuring that everything will run smoothly, come tonight.”

“And the four you’ve brought with you?” Picquery asked.

“A formality,” Theseus lied.

_You’ve failed to keep your agency safe before, Madam President_.

She could see it in his eyes. In all their eyes. She killed a boy. Imprisoned innocent people. Trusted a dark wizard wearing her Director’s face with the security of her nation. She was losing her grasp on the world.

And the only person that could help her, she had failed.

_“You don’t need me, Sera,”_ whispered through her head, so vivid it was as though Graves had whispered it in her ear, and something in her heart steadied.

“I assume you’ve come to debrief me on your plans?” Picquery asked.

“If you have a moment,” Theseus said with a nod, but in his eyes she could see a ravenous hunger. A burning loathing. In his eyes, she saw the truth of the situation. Theseus had no intention of discussing tonight. 

“Let’s take this into my office then, Mr. Scamander,” she said regardless.

With a nod, Theseus motioned for his team to stay put. And when she motioned for the same of her staff, one of the senior aurors at her back shifted warily. 

“Madam President, are you sure that is wise?” He asked, obviously not too heartbroken over the idea, but nonetheless obligated to mention his hesitation. 

She looked at him perfunctorily and asked, “Have we something to fear of our English brothers that I am not aware of, Adams?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Then I see no issue with giving Director Scamander a private audience.”

“Of course, Madam President. We’ll be just outside, should you need us.”

The look Theseus gave her was clinical, but fierce. And nowhere in it was he grateful, rather than confident and victorious. In his mind, there was no path where they would not be speaking privately, and the knowledge of that made Picquery shiver beneath the dignity of her presidential mask.

“After you, Mr. Scamander,” she said, gesturing for Theseus to enter her office before following him inside. It was a simple matter to close and lock the doors behind her. Less so to calm the twisting in her belly the moment Theseus turned to look at her, the eyes of a lion staring out of a mortal man’s face. Dangerous and unimpressed.

“Brave of you,” Theseus commented.

“As I said, Director. What fear have I of my Ministry brothers?”

“None. But you didn’t just lock yourself in a room with a Ministry official. You locked yourself in a room with the best friend of a man _you_ failed. And if you think we’ll be talking about any business before I’ve gotten some real answers beyond ‘ _He’s being looked after’_ from your medical staff, you’re sadly mistaken. President or not.”

“That’s rather bold of you, Theseus,” she said, breaking formality.

“I’m tired of waiting in the shadows for permission to do what’s right,” he said, and she could not help but raise one slender brow in response.

“Careful, Director. What you speak of is toeing the line of treason. At the very least, insubordination.”

“Are you going to tattle?” Theseus asked, back straight and imposing.

Picquery let the silence hang, pregnant and heavy.

“No,” she finally said. “I’m going to answer your questions.”

Theseus blinked, something in his shoulders deflating somewhat.

“What?”

Picquery made a show of circling the room to finally take a seat at her desk, fingers steepled as she faced him.

“Ask your questions, Theseus. I will answer every one of them within the best of my ability.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. All of them.”

He stared at her for a beat, wrong-footed, then seemed to shake himself. As if reminding himself of his purpose, of his anger. He sneered, turning to face her fully — his shadow a predator ready to strike, teeth glinting behind the snarl of his lips. 

“Power hungry Picquery is willing to admit her wrongs? I find that hard to believe. Some of your actions could have you impeached, Madam President. Maybe you aren’t Picquery, but some maniac who obvious doesn’t know the snake he’s trying to mimic.”

She leaned back into her chair, suddenly tired. Chin high but frail like the last autumn leaf before winter’s bite. Determined before the inevitable fall.

She let him calm down. Let the moment hang.

“I have always been accustomed to the price of power,” she said softly, finally, as though remembering a dream. “I knew it’s weight, it’s burden. Never complained about not having a family, a lover, a friend… but as it turns out, I did have a family. And the price I thought I had no trouble paying has proven to be too high… If his safety is the price of my legacy, I’m ready to bury my name myself. Believe what you want, Theseus. But my answers will be truthful. And they will not change. I am a representative of Justice. I cannot spare myself.”

Theseus stood there for a long moment, a pillar of righteous fury erected in the middle of her office. His eyes knives that biopsied the deepest core of her, and she let him. Let him look freely, for as long as he needed, and did not flinch beneath the weight of his scorn — his heartache. This too was a price of leadership she had long since avoided, and it was time to dawn its burden onto her shoulders. She pinned his grief to her mantle like a general’s badge. Heavy and cold and smothering.

And when he had taken his fill of her shame, his shoulders fell — only slightly — and he took a seat across from her. Suddenly older. The lines of his face suddenly deeper. Grey at his temples. Weary.

She waited for the first blow. Braced and resigned.

“Where is he?” Theseus finally asked.

“With your brother.”

Theseus stilled at that, something like molten iron rising in his gaze.

“Haven’t you already involved him enough?” Theseus asked, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. “Near execution wasn’t enough? Now you’ve put him in that maniac’s path?”

“Your brother put himself in Grindelwald’s sights all on his own the moment he singlehandedly disarmed and identified the very man neither your nor my administration could catch. He had every opportunity to go home, Theseus. We would not have stopped him. But he was the only one that Percival would allow near him and so your little brother, being the good man that he is, decided to stay. And we could not afford to turn away his assistance. He’s safer with your brother than he is in the hospital wing. Better understood.”

She awaited his mindless, brotherly fury. The temper that Theseus Scamander - Lion of the Ministry - was so ruthlessly known for. Instead, the wrath in Theseus stilled like water after all its ripples had faded - flat and calm and crisp. Focused.

“What do you mean, Percival would only allow Newt near him?”

She could see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Percival did not know Newt well, despite being Theseus’ best friend. On adventures as much as he was, he had never gotten the chance. Newt and Percival only knew each other through stories — all told by Theseus. Why would he trust Newt above Picquery, his closest confidant in MACUSA? Over his own men? Why did he only trust Newt, a stranger?

“Theseus,” Picquery said slowly, softly. “How much were you informed about Percival’s rescue?”

“That he was kidnapped and replaced by Grindelwald. That no one noticed for months while a mass murderer effectively masqueraded around as a good man. That he was found and rescued — weak and having suffered torture. That he’s alive and recovering.”

Picquery spread her hands on her desktop and drew a long breath before slowly leaning to her locked drawer and waving away the charms that kept it sealed. The room was silent but for the rustling of papers as she drew out a thin folder of documents, its cover stamped ‘ _Sensitive Information, Level 5 Security Clearance Only’._ She sat the folder atop the desk between her braced hands and sucked in a steadying breath.

Theseus took one look at the folder and something in his jaw tensed, twitched.

“It’s worse. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “It is. I promised you answers, Theseus. And I won’t break that promise. However… considering the nature of your mission, please seriously consider what you are about to do. You can just as easily read this document tomorrow after Grindelwald is safely in Ministry custody. Time will not change what was done to him.”

He narrowed his eyes, and instantly she knew that her warnings — if anything — had only ensured that he would pursue the truth rather than heed her pleas. He leaned forward until he was on the edge of his seat before drawing the file close to him, taking it in both hands.

“How bad?” Theseus asked, his throat filled with stones as his thumbs flirted with the edges of the precipice between sanity and truth, the folder slowly parting between them. Picquery pursed her lips at a loss for words when it came time to describe the significance of the damage done unto her friend. How should she describe him? Crippled? Raped? Mentally unsound? Brainwashed? Cursed? Unfit for duty? There was no polite way of saying it. No word that could save face, not accurately portray what had happened. Words paled in comparison to the truth, but silence was not enough for Theseus. 

The sound of the folder opening felt more like the breeze of a guillotine falling rather than a page turning.

Although she could not see from where she sat, Picquery knew what he would find on the first page. The folder started with a report, as any other official document from the Department of Magical Security would. She braced herself as his eyes scoured each and every page, his brows furrowing a little more and a little more as he went. His lip began to curl. His jaw tightened. He swallowed once, and she could hear the dry and grieving click of it. And she waited.

And after what felt like a century of patience, he finally flipped back to the beginning and ran his fingers over the picture she knew was clipped inside. A picture of Graves in his hospital bed after Newt had coaxed him from the closet — small and limp, surrounded by nurses and mediwizards and MACUSA’s best from the Department of Illegal Curses and Magic. Fast asleep as people brushed over his large black ears or traced the heavy line of leather at his throat. The tags it bore glinting innocently; one the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, the other “Pretty”.

Theseus looked like the calm before a storm. Electricity thrumming beneath the barely constrained shivering of his skin. Energy rising beneath the calm facade of his expression. Rage growing in him like a tempest, ready to to reduce anything in its way to dust.

“How the hell did this happen, Sera?” Theseus finally asked, and Picquery sighed a long sigh — a breath she had been holding for what felt like years, but never noticed.

“We were clouded by arrogance,” she said honestly. “And in that arrogance, I allowed weakness to bleed into my administration. He played me, and I was a fool. He performed dark arts upon the minds of anyone keen enough to oppose him or notice him. The best of this administration fell silently to him as though he were a plague while the rest of us allowed things to spiral into chaos. A failure in which I take full responsibility for.”

She looked up, and when she did, Theseus was looking at her as though she were a stranger. And between her and the file in his hands, it was obviously he felt as though he had no solid, well known land to stand on. 

“You’ve changed,” he said.

She tightened her grip on her hands in her lap.

“Too late, unfortunately,” she acknowledged.

Theseus shook his head.

“If there’s one thing Percy taught me, it’s that it’s never too late to change… He's taught us a great many things, it would seem. And still we failed him.”

“You weren’t here, Theseus,” she said. “How could you have known?”

He opened his mouth as though to answer, only to fall back into a pursed line — scowl lines framing his mouth, aging him. 

“I should have known,” was all he said, and she knew better than to pry. Not on the eve of his mission. She had done enough to compromise him already.

“Where is he?” Theseus finally asked, his voice strange and foreign to her now. 

“With your brother.”

“That’s why I couldn’t find him in the hospital ward. Why the nurses wouldn’t speak with me. You were hiding this from me.”

“Not solely,” Picquery said. “We could hardly advertise to anyone that one of the nation's strongest assets was…” _Broken. Lost. Irreparable._ She shook her head and continued. “We moved him into your brother’s case because no one understood him better than he did. He was the one who was able to coax Percival into a calm state, when we found him. He is the only person who knows how to handle him and see him as a person, rather than the frail remains of a well-loved man. And as you said, it was also for the people who loved him — like you and Percival’s team — who now more than ever need to be able to do their jobs.”

Theseus regarded her for a long moment, then said, “I want to see him. I won’t be able to think straight until I see him for myself.”

“He’ll know. The moment you walk into his cell, he’ll know you went to see him. He’ll use Graves against you.”

“I understand your reservations, but I won't be able to do my job until I've seen him for myself.”

Finally, Picquery leaned back into her chair, all pretenses vanished. As though awaiting the worst news, now that Theseus had made his decision, she could relax — accept it — move on. 

There was no stopping a Scamander, once they’d made up their mind. Evidently it ran in the family.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

With a promise to return and discuss plans, Theseus went straight to Newt with barely a word to his aurors beyond “stay here and get ready”. And when he got to the address Picquery had provided for him, two witches were already waiting for him outside. 

He opened his mouth to address them, ready to ask if they were the aurors in charge of watching over his brother and Graves, when both women quickly rushed forward, seized him by his forearms and drew him into a side alley between their building and the next. The brunette threw a quick _notice-me-not_ charm to fill the entrance of the alley even as the blonde threw her own _avoidance_ spell to entice people not to enter; mostly for Muggles, he assumed.

“What the—?” Theseus asked, baffled by the strange behavior and more than a little on edge. He felt his wand burn, hot and ready, against the flesh of his wrist where his holster was; ready to spring free at a moment’s notice. And he was about to call upon it, too, when the two women suddenly began to talk.

“Sorry about that Mister—oh wait, no, I supposed it’s _Director_ Scamander, isn’t it?” The brunette said even as the blonde suddenly took a few steps closer than strictly warranted, a struck look on her face as she held onto his forearm.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she said, as though they had been deep in a conversation for the past twenty minutes rather than meeting for the first time. 

“Queenie, stop it. You gotta stop doing that to everybody,” the brunette said sharply.

“You know I can’t help it,” Queenie said without ever taking her eyes off Theseus. “You don’t mind, do you, honey?”

It only took seconds to connect the dots, to make him aware of the little haze of light at the edge of his mind. He recoiled, drawing his arm from her sharply, and felt his own wand drop into the palm of his hand. And with the force of a brick wall, he slammed Queenie out. If her little gasp and tiny stumble back was anything to go by, it got the message across. He minded quite a bit.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” He asked, voice barely restrained from a snarl. 

The brunette was quick to raise one hand in a sign of peace, her wand still in hand by held down safely by her thigh. Queenie, however, appeared to still be a little disoriented from his mental backlash.

“I’m Tina Goldstein, an Auror with the Department of Magical Security,” Tina said quickly, calmly. The sounds of New York thick in her vowels, just like her sister. Eyes large in her head, but not panicked. “This is my sister, Queenie. We’ve been watching over your brother and Mr. Graves. Madam Picquery sent word that you were coming, so we came to meet you.”

“Outside?” Theseus asked, eyes sharp and flitting between the two of them.

“Our landlord doesn’t allow men in the building, you see,” Queenie said, fingers at her temple as though soothing some invisible hurt. A flicker of regret awoke in Theseus’ stomach, but he quenched it down.

“I see. Then what about—“

“They’re in Newt’s case. Which by the by is how we plan on getting you inside. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Theseus stood there, staring at them for a long moment, before he felt his lip slowly curl.

“Just like that you’d let a stranger into your home? Into my brother’s case?” 

Queenie flinched, surprised, golden curls bobbing. Tina, however, frowned. A furious expression passing over her face. She took a few steps forward and jabbed a finger into his chest.

“Listen here, I don’t care how important you are over the ocean. How dare you come here hurling criticism when we’re trying our best. They’re safe, aren’t they? No one’s gotten to them! And of course I’m not going to just _let you inside_. Madam President sent some questions for me to cross check with you and I’m going into the case with you. If Newt and I could handle Grindelwald, we can handle _you_.”

“Tinie,” Queenie said softly from behind her, but the look on Tina’s face just darkened.

“No! I won’t apologize. How dare you? _How dare you?_ You aren’t the only one who’s worried!”

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Theseus gaped like a fish, at a loss for words. Surprised by these women, but also by himself. This wasn’t him. Of course they were going to test him. Of course…

"Oh honey,” Queenie said, slipping by Tina to touch him gently at his elbow — hesitantly. Afraid. And that was his fault. “I don’t blame you for assuming. None of us noticed he was missing after all, did we? But we know what’s wrong now. And we’re trying. Honest we are.”

He couldn’t bare to part with his wand, but he did relax his posture. And had the good grace to look somewhat ashamed. He was no saint.

After all, he had not noticed either.

Something in Queenie softened further, and she rubbed his arm twice before stepping away again.

Theseus cleared his throat, the words ‘I’m sorry’ stuck behind his teeth. Instead he said, “Ask your questions.”

Tina withdrew a small note in the shape of a little bird from her coat pocket and let it unfurl into her palm. She smoothed it out and read, “Name, rank, and Hogwarts house.”

Queenie blinked. “Really?”

Tina shrugged.

“Theseus Apollo Fenrir Scamander, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the Ministry of Magic, and member of house Gryffindor.”

“What did you receive for your efforts in the first world war?”

Theseus felt something in his jaw clench. 

“The Victoria Cross, for gallantry in the face of the enemy,” he repeated, the words still burned into his head as they pinned a medal to his coat instead of laying a flag upon his casket. 

Tina looked up at him then. 

“Yes, we know. But _why?_ ”

“I was leading a unit behind enemy lines. Our goal was to retrieve POWs, if possible, but primarily to acquire any information about the enemy’s plans and deliver as much damage to the base and their operations as possible. Only, I led us into a trap. I received the medal for defying the odds and getting all my men out of there while simultaneously grievously damaging their base of operations, or so the story goes.”

Tina nodded and let her eyes fall onto the next question, only to stiffen. She looked between the paper and Theseus even as Queenie slipped beside her to read the question herself, her eyes going wide. 

“Oh," she whispered. 

Tina opened her mouth, but Theseus stopped her.

“I know,” he said. “I know what the question is. It makes sense. Not many know. The person who should have gotten that medal was Percival Graves. Instead, he received nothing but a scar.”

Tina pursed her lips, obviously uncomfortable, but nodded nonetheless.

“Okay, last question,” she said. “What did you say to… What did you say to Madam Picquery the night that Mr. Graves was promoted?”

Theseus closed his eyes. He could see it, even now. 

_Percival across the room, dressed in a smart looking tux. Thin, because he had been overworking himself for this promotion. But his skin was glowing, his smile sincere. Surrounded by a group of his fellow aurors who were all patting him on the back and knocking fine tumbler glasses of amber whiskey. One of them said something and they all fell into an uproar of laughter, which only seemed to gain them the confused, if a little bothered, glances of a number of foreign dignitaries and MACUSA ambassadors also attending the function. And for once, Percival didn’t care. He laughed and carried on, and allowed himself to be human._

_“I’m glad you made it, Theseus,” Picquery said as she joined him at one of the small standing tables around the sides of the general seating area — a vast stretch of opulent tables and gorgeous floral centerpieces and fine dining. “I know he was happy to hear you were coming… But why aren’t you with him?”_

_Theseus set down his glass and turned to look at her._

_“Because I wanted to have a word with you.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“I offered Percival a job, you know. At the Ministry,” Theseus said. Picquery raised her brows at that._

_“I can’t say that I blame you, Percival is a very capable wizard. But why are you telling me?”_

_“Because he said no,” Theseus said, his hand tensing somewhat around his glass. “He said he had already pledged himself to you.”_

_“A long time ago, yes…” Picquery said gently, a whisper of a memory in her tone as she turned to watch her friend. “I’m surprised he took it so seriously.”_

_“That’s precisely why I wanted him to leave MACUSA,” Theseus said, and Picquery blinked. She slowly turned to him, and when she did all semblance of friendliness had left her. As quickly and as simply as flicking a light switch. Before him now stood the President, and above all, a politician. “Percy doesn’t make promises lightly. Not like you. He’s no politician. He’s a good man. Whatever promise he made to you, he meant it.”_

_Picquery considered him for a long time._

_“What did you want to tell me, Theseus?” she asked coolly._

_Theseus leaned forward somewhat after taking a gentle glance around the room. For all the world that might see them, his position was lax and friendly. But in his eyes, he shared a predator’s challenge with Picquery._

_“That I know who you really are, Picquery. I’ve heard about some of the things you’ve done to get to where you are. I don’t know how you earned his trust or his loyalty, but if you abuse it or betray him, the tensions between our countries be damned, I will come for you.”_

_Picquery stilled, but the chill in her eyes did not waver._

_“Is that a threat, Mr. Scamander?”_

_Theseus turned to look across the room once more, and when he did, Graves was looking at him. The happy smile on his face was slowly fading, a concern building in his dark brown eyes. He took a step forward, but Theseus gestured for him to stay. That he’d be right over. Coaxed himself into safer body language until Graves finally settled back into his own conversation — immersed in laughter and celebration once more. And that sealed it._

_“No,” he said as he finished his glass and set it down upon the table between them. “Percival made his promises to you. That one’s mine. And just as surely as you can count on him to have your back, you can count on me to end you should you do anything to prove that you weren’t worthy of his trust.”_

_Theseus pulled away from the table then, but he was no more than a few feet away when Picquery called out to him again._

_“He’s my friend too, Theseus.”_

_Theseus paused and turned to look at her._

_“I don’t doubt that he was, once. But you’re different now, Sera. Tell yourself what you want to help you sleep at night, but I know better. And I will be watching.”_

_And with that, Theseus swept away. When he stepped up to join Graves’ little party of aurors, his friend gladly drew a chair up right beside him. A friendly clap on the shoulder, a drink shoved into his hands._

_“I’m glad that you could make it, Thes,” Percival said, his joy slowly becoming something more somber, a little apologetic as he said, “I wasn’t sure if you would after…”_

_Theseus leaned forward, their shoulders brushing, and grabbed his friend by the back of the neck like he used to when they were in the trenches._

_“Of course I came,” Theseus said, grinning. “I don’t care where you work, Perce. I just want you to be happy.”_

_Percival smiled, and_ Theseus opened his eyes, unable to take any more. The memory fading from his eyes but hanging around his neck like a noose. The last time he had properly seen his friend smile…

“I made her a promise,” Theseus said, his eyes falling upon the women in front of him. Tina looked confused by his sudden change, but Queenie looked pale. Pale and shaken. And he didn’t have the energy to hate her for it. “She broke her end of the deal, so here I am.”

Tina opened her mouth to question him further, obviously not content with his vague answer, but Queenie just grabbed her by the wrist and lowered the little paper with a shake of her head.

“It’s him,” she whispered, and Tina seemed content with that.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Scamander,” Tina finally said. “I suppose grand entrances run in the family, huh?”

“So it would seem,” Theseus admitted. “You’re the woman who helped my brother.”

“ _Women,”_ Queenie said, puffed up.

Theseus felt a loose, tired chuckle slip past his lips and he tipped his head to her in acknowledgement. 

“Yes, of course. As much a pleasure as it is to meet you both, might we…?” He trailed off, only for Tina to bounce on the backs of her heels.

“Oh yes, of course,” she said quickly, reaching into her coat once more. The paper bird was quickly replaced with a miniaturized version of Newt’s suitcase, just as battered and familiar as last he saw it — if rather small.

A simple charm brought the case back to its normal shape and size, falling heavy into her hand by the handle with a pop. She delicately placed it down onto the alley floor after a hasty check of their surroundings before pausing with her fingers at the latches, eyes peering up at him from where she kneeled. 

“If you betray us in any way, whether it be that you’re a very good imposter or a turncoat, do not doubt that I will do everything in my power to stop you. By any means necessary.”

And for the first time since setting foot on American soil, Theseus felt a little of the burden on his shoulders lightened, if only a little. He leaned in, peering at her now as if for the first time.

“Ah. You’re the little bear cub Percival was talking about,” Theseus said, a soft look smoothing out the worst of the curl from his lip.

“E-excuse me?”

Theseus took another moment to consider her, then nodded. “I can see it now. I’m glad he has you. Ask him about it, when we have him back,” was all Theseus said before waving one hand at the case, its latches busting open immediately at his call, recognizing him.

Tina stumbled back with a start, eyes wide as she watched Theseus calm slip first one long leg, then another into the case before disappearing entirely.

“C’mon, cub,” Theseus called from inside the case.

“W-wait!” She called back before scurrying in after him, leaving Queenie behind to chuckle with a loose shake of her curls, snap the case shut, and take them all inside while whistling an innocent, cheery little tune.

 

* * *

 

“Newt!” Tina called out when she reached the bottom of the stairs, breath caught on an indignant little huff at the sight of Theseus already slipping out of his coat and hanging it up — right at home. “Newt, are you here?”

And when there was no response, she rushed forward to grab Theseus by the elbow.

“Let me fetch him first, at least. You’ll startle him,” Tina said.

That didn’t stop Theseus in the slightest. He kept moving forward despite her protests, as familiar with the layout of Newt’s case as the man himself. Easily avoiding stacks of books and knickknacks as his eyes roved over his surroundings, taking his little brother’s home in. 

“Hasn’t changed one bit,” he murmured to himself, then, louder for Tina, “Despite what you might think, my brother really doesn’t startle that easily, I assure you.”

“No, not Newt,” she said quickly, and finally he paused a foot from the doorway, Newt’s many habitats just visible beyond. He sucked in a breath, suddenly painfully reminded of the point of his visit. He looked back at her, caught the relieved flicker in her face at his hesitation, only for it to crumble when he pushed forward far more purposefully.

“Newt! Theseus called out, a few creatures trilling at the familiar baritone of his voice. “Newt, where are you?”

“Please, Mr. Scamander, settle down!” Tina urged, her wand slipping into her palm, openly frustrated.

“Newt!” Theseus called out again as he rounded a corner, then another, each pen only occupied by its designated creature, until finally he spun on heel to go deeper into the case only to find his brother standing there — a smudge of dirt on his cheek, his curls a mess, his sleeves rolled up. Blinking in surprise very much like a little owl might.

“Brother,” Newt breathed, rubbing at a ring on his middle finger that was glowing idly — one that matched the one Theseus had around his neck.

Theseus waited for it, the inevitable ‘ _you shouldn’t be here_ ’. Instead, Newt rushed forward and seized his brother in a hug, shoulders shaking. Clinging to him as though he were a raft at sea, saving Newt from drowning. Stable, familiar ground in an ocean of chaos. Theseus felt some of the tension melt from his bones as he brought himself around his brother, pulling him in tight. Fingers cupping the back of his neck and squeezing.

“You should have told me you were missing me so much,” Theseus joked softly, only to feel Newt lightly rabbit punch him in the ribs.

“Don’t ruin it,” Newt muttered before pulling away. “Why are you here?”

“I wish I could say I was visiting under happier circumstances. Ministry business.” Theseus said and Newt stilled, the dots connecting quickly. 

“He’s getting transferred to England tonight?” Newt asked, and Theseus nearly narrowed his eyes at the not entirely happy tone of the question.

“Yes. It’ll all be over soon enough.”

“Good,” Newt said, but there was a hitch to his breath. A sharpness. Something foreign flicked across his face, and Theseus thought of his friend. Knew it was related.

“Where is he, Newt?”

Newt jerked his gaze up to look at him, then shied away, his eyes falling upon some distant corner.

“Theseus, I don’t know if—”

“Newt,” Theseus said. Not unkindly, but with no room for debate. Tired and firm. Patient, but not for long. “I won’t be able to do what I need to do if I’m wondering how bad off he is all night.”

Thankfully, Newt relented with a handful of nods and a quick gesture of his hand.

“This way,” he said, and they followed.

Newt led them through his enclosures, past the Nundu, back to the little hill that rose up to meet an artificial moon. The tree at its peak swayed gently in an non-existent breeze, and beneath its limbs, Theseus could see the mooncalves bouncing and chirping, more lively than usual.

“Newt?” Theseus asked softly.

“Come on,” Newt prompted, waving him to follow. The trip up the hill was short, but it felt like miles before they finally crested it. And when they did, Theseus saw what had his brother’s normally docile creatures all riled up.

At the center of the squirming hoard was a man sitting on the ground. His lap was full with two calves, with more pressing in on either side of him. For a moment, Theseus didn’t recognize him. Not because of the ears or the scrawniness of his limbs. But because of his eyes — large and brown and wet. Cheerful and crinkled above a delighted smile. Chuckles tumbling from his lips. Young in a way Theseus had not seen him in years.

At the sight of their visitors, a strong thwapping sound began to beat, and all the mooncalves turned with their too large eyes to regard them, purring and chirping quizzically. Just as a third plunked its butt into Graves’ lap, forcing a huff of air from him — pink in the cheeks from amusement, if a little pained.

“Nurturing little buggers,” Newt mumbled fondly before moving forward to shoo them away. “Off with you lot, before you crush him!”

One by one, the herd scampered off. All but one, a young little mooncalf that bayed pitifully at Newt and refused to move from Graves’ lap.

“You too,” Newt urged, and Graves gave it one more pet before Newt’s shooing finally worked and the mooncalf scampered off with a little bark and a huff, returning to its herd.

“Tina,” Graves chirped pleasantly, although in his shoulders his anxiety was obvious — eyes searching for the woman who had last joined Tina on one of her visits.

Beside Theseus, Tina melted somewhat. The tension she had been carrying bleeding out just a little.

“Hello again, Percy.”

“Percy?” Theseus blinked, a lifetime’s worth of playful punches as a result of having called his friend by that dreadful nickname flitting through his mind. 

The beating noise came again, and behind his friend something long and black wagged merrily at the sound of his name. It took a moment to see it for what it was, this new development not listed in the report. Tina tried to cover her gasp with a hand, but too late. The note of shock slipping into the air between them all, and on the ground, Graves stilled — his tail disappearing tight to the curve of his thigh.

“Newt… how?” Tina stumbled.

“When he disapparated, I’m afraid,” Newt said, running his hand soothingly through Graves’ hair like some, some, _some dog._ And beneath his hand, Graves closed his eyes and pressed close, and it was too much. Too much.

“Newt,” Theseus said sharply, and as though suddenly aware of himself, of the way he was treating a grown man, Newt quickly drew his hand away, eyes askance. And if possible, Graves shrank even more.

“It helps,” Newt offered weakly, but still did not reach out to Graves again.

“He’s a _man_ , Newt. Not a dog.”

Graves’ tail curled around him tighter, his ears flatter, and for a moment it was almost as though he didn’t have them. If not for the wet, worried look on his face, he was almost…

No. He was nothing like Percival, Theseus told himself. Nearly an entirely different human altogether. 

He thought of the man who had stood at his back in the war and made storms grow at his fingertips like a Thunderbird. He thought of the man who had shared bottles of firewhiskey with him and blown smoke rings into the air like old men. Who couldn’t hold a note to save his life, but sang incessantly when he was drunk. Of the way he’d clumsily try to dance, too — all flailing limbs despite his usual grace. The fact that he drank too much coffee, and that he secretly liked it sweet although he did not indulge too often. Of the friend who had come to see him accept his Victoria Cross, never once jealous. The thought to even _be_ jealous never occurring, even though he deserved it too. Perhaps more.

The man who had taken a bullet for him. Brown, clever eyes going dull and weary as Theseus slung him over his shoulder and _ran, ran, ran_. Percival Graves, proud and powerful and tall. Larger than life.

And now so small.

He could not compromise with the fact that this creature in front of him — this wide-eyed pup of a man — was supposed to be him. That they were one in the same. That _this_ was Percival Graves.

His lip must have curled in a nasty way at some point, because Newt stepped forward.

“Theseus,” he said, but there was a softness to his tone, a hesitation. “That’s enough.”

Theseus felt white hot anger rise in him. Lightning hot beneath his skin, sharp like ozone. Ready to lash out, to release his pent up frustration. Were he a younger man, it would have gotten the best of him, too. He would have sneered. Would have scoffed and turned away. Would have shunned what he couldn’t come to terms with. 

But he felt old. Thin, like butter spread over too much bread. He could feel every growing wrinkle, every withering bone. His shoulder ached, his knees. The very air in his lungs felt stale, but looking at Graves then — small and shivering — he couldn’t bare to turn away. Friendship didn’t mean just sticking around for the good times. When he adopted Graves as his brother in the trenches all those years ago, it wasn’t conditional. There, in the mud and the blood and the earth, he had made a pact. And it wasn’t conditional. Brotherhood saw past disability, past trauma. Because this was as much Percival Graves as the man had been in war — just in need of help. Trauma didn’t forfeit him as his friend or his brother. If anything, it made brotherhood all that much more important. 

So with a sharp breath, then another deeper one, he let the anger simmer into a soft boil. He squashed it down and saved it’s wrath for later. Instead, he took a deep breath and, evidently to Newt’s surprise, nodded.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice rough as though kissed by whiskey; and oh, how he wished he had some right now. 

With a little grunt, he bent a knee — the joint popping loudly, making Graves flinch. He didn’t get too close. He gave Graves space and resisted the urge to hold out his hand for a sniff as he would with a dog, and instantly understood how easily Newt might have fallen into those habits. He forced a smile onto his lips, one he hoped Graves might recognize. But even to him, it felt tired. Pale in comparison to the smiles they used to share when they were wild and young and blind. He thought of the lessons Newt had taught him about body language and how to approach spooked creatures. He thought about his own training with victims, and felt ire rise at himself for having treated his friend so poorly. He loosened his shoulders, made himself less imposing, made himself small, and spoke gently — confidently, but kindly.

“I’m sorry, Perce. That was bloody rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m not mad at _you_ , mate. I’m mad at a lot of people, but not you.”

Between the change in body language and tone, Graves slowly began to respond in kind. He slowly unfurled from his tight and dreadful ball of a position. His tail uncurling, his ears perking. And God, it hurt to watch. To see how much damage Grindelwald had done.

Newt slipped his hand back into Graves’ hair encouragingly, smiling down when Graves tilted up to look at him.

“This is my brother, Theseus.”

“Theseus,” Graves repeated, then moved to look at Theseus again, a little more open — a little more curious.

“Yes,” Theseus said, swallowing when the words felt dry and stuck. “Do you remember me?”

A soft frown appeared on Graves’ face, his tags trembling as a furrow grew between his brows. He winced, a hand trailing up to brush at his temple, and gently Theseus took his free wrist and brushed his thumb across it soothingly. It was so thin in his hand, so frail. His stomach twisted.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Theseus whispered, but Graves looked ashamed nonetheless.

“You’re looking for him too, aren’t you?”

Theseus blinked.

“Him?”

“The man from the dark. The one that looks like me.”

Newt knelt down too, his hands seeking out the curve of Graves’ jaw, drawing his attention.

“Who are you talking about, Percy? Are you talking about master? When he’d wear your face?” Newt asked, and when Theseus angrily mouthed ‘master?’ to him from above Graves’ head, Newt just shook his head — _not now._

“No,” Graves said. “The other me.”

“Graves?” Tina gasped, no longer able to hold her silence. She took a step forward, the air punched from her lungs. “Do you mean Graves, Percy?”

“He was here,” Graves said. “But I couldn’t stop him from fading. I’m sorry. I know that’s who you’re looking for. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled wetly, each word beginning to run into the next — bleeding into little gasps as he pressed into Newt’s hands, his side. “He was here, but now he’s gone. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Newt gathered him into his arms, falling back onto his butt as he brought Graves into his lap, holding him close. Letting him hide his face into his shoulder, snuffling softly. Shivering.

“It’s not your fault,” Newt said softly, and in his face Theseus could recognize a familiar gnawing weariness that matched his own. He had never seen his brother look so tired. Not since the time he’d stayed up two days straight trying to save a mangled creature rescued from a smuggling ring — it hadn’t made it. Theseus recognized that look. “It’s not your fault.”

Theseus had a dozen questions. What was the darkness? Where did Percival go? That did Percy mean by gone? He opened his mouth, but Newt cut him off.

“I think we should stop,” Newt said. Theseus wanted to argue, but the look in Newt’s eyes asked for patience. This soft version of his friend was not the only one who could give him answers. 

He let his gaze fall onto Graves. Onto the shiver of his shoulders and the wet press of his lashes against Newt’s shirt. His heart fell.

“I had hoped to see him,” Theseus confessed, undeterred when Newt shot him a sharp look. More confident than he had ever seen his baby brother before. “But I came to see you too, Cap.”

In Newt’s arms Graves stilled, but didn’t not acknowledge him. And when it seemed obvious that his friend was not going to interact with him any further, he let out a soft sigh and slowly stood with a huff and a snap. When he was on his own two feet again, he ran his hand over the top of Graves’ head — careful not to touch his ears — and slid it back to cup the back of the man’s neck. A familiar gesture, an intimate squeeze. A foreign bite of leather, thick beneath his palm.

“I’ll find a way to make this right, brother,” he promised. And when he began to pull away, his back turned to them, he sucked in a soft breath at the feeling of a hand grabbing him by the wrist. he turned to look down at his captor. At those watery brown eyes, so big by comparison to what he remembered on his dear friend.

“Theseus,” Graves said, a little strong than before, a little heavier. Almost familiar.

Theseus’ heart lurched, hoping that the term of endearment had knocked something loose. Hoping that the nickname had resonated. And somewhere in those eyes, it did. There was an echo of a memory there. Hazy and unsure, but there.

Then Graves blinked, as though in pain, and it was gone. But his hand held tight nonetheless.

“I’ll keep trying, too,” Graves promised.

Something in Theseus wilted. Made soft by this victim, this stranger wearing his friend’s flesh. And even though this was not his Graves, he could see Percival in the goodness of his heart, in his selflessness. A pang shot through Theseus, and for a moment he could almost see him — his Cap, his earnestness, his valor. Just… gentler. A spring shower rather than a summer storm, but birthed from the same clouds, the same sky.

He forced a smile onto his face once more, something hot in his eyes, and said, “Thank you… You’re a good man, Percy.”

And Percy let him go. 

“I have to go,” he said, drawing to his full height to address Newt. “I’ll be back soon. We’ll figure this out, Newt.”

Newt nodded, but there was a strange look on his face; peculiar. Divided. Theseus didn’t have long to think on it, his attention grabbed by Tina as she stepped up beside him.

“I’ll walk out with you. I need to get back as well.”

Theseus hadn’t anticipated walking away from his brother and his friend to be so hard. He wanted nothing more than to stay and address the matter firsthand until it was fixed. He knew there were things that Newt was not telling him. That Picquery was not telling him. Protecting him, protecting Percy. And for now, he allowed it. The best thing he could do for them all was get Grindelwald into firmer custody and well on his way to tried and imprisoned or executed. 

The cabin felt smaller, drearier. 

Theseus grabbed his coat and went about sliding into it.

“I just… I can't believe we’ve run out of time. We failed him… Again…” Tina murmured, more to herself than anyone else, but it drew Theseus’ attention nonetheless. He stilled.

“What do you mean, out of time?”

Tina rubbed angrily at the wetness welling in her eyes and sniffed, frustrated with herself.

“You’re taking him away tonight, aren’t you? Grindelwald?”

“Yes. To be tried.”

“Then we’ve run out of time to keep questioning him about the collar.”

Theseus thought back to the report, its pages flashing in his mind’s eye. Words about a collar and a picture of it thick around Percival’s throat, two charms hanging from it.

‘ _The collar appears to have been cursed onto the patient. All efforts to remove it by physical or magical means has resulted in cardiac arrest of the patient. It has thus been deemed too dangerous to remove.’_

“The reports said that medical was unable to remove it,” Theseus said, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt the pieces falling into place. Medical could not remove it because it was cursed. By Grindelwald.

Quickest way to lift a curse? Find the man who cast it.

The extended time Picquery had requested had not been for the sake of settling her administration in the aftermath of the chaos Grindelwald’s farce had left behind, it had been to give her more time with the prisoner. Time that had been for naught. 

Time that they were out of.

“Grindelwald knows how to remove it,” Theseus said.

“Grindelwald knows how to remove it,” Tina echoed, eyes distant. 

Theseus clenched his jaw. His stomach tightened, his heart sank. He was in the very predicament he had feared the moment he heard Percival wasn’t in fact in the hospital, recovering from normal injuries. Uphold his mission to the letter and honor his country? Or abuse his power, and do what needed to be done to save his best friend? On Newt’s shelf, trinkets and books began to rattle. 

“Mr. Scamander?” Tina asked, voice soft in the face of Theseus’ growing ire. Only for everything in the room to still all at once, the little cabin falling silent. 

“I need to take a walk,” Theseus said, then turned on heel and climbed the ladder leading out of Newt’s case, leaving a startled and flabbergasted Tina behind. Coat tails disappearing in a heartbeat, the man gone altogether the moment he was out of the case and able to disapparate. 

“Scamanders,” Tina cursed. “Unpredictable bloody saps, the lot of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry this took a billion years. Hopefully the length makes up for it? haha. And hopefully it's not too long. I rewrote this a stupid number of times before finally convincing myself that I need to just move forward and let it breathe. So hopefully it continues to entertain. I gotta say though, I am REALLY excited to write the next chapter. >:)
> 
> So much art to share! Presents and commissions and kindness, I can't even!! Thank all of you so, so much!
> 
> QED - http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/163290459044/qed221b-when-newt-woke-graves-was-gone  
> QuestionArtBox - http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/163345377509/questionartbox-pretty-a-quick-little-thing  
> QuestionArtBox - http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/162686395569/funkzpiel-questionartbox-ears-commission-for  
> Axilarts - http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/163328837009/axilarts-ahh-i-didnt-know-it-was-your-birthday  
> Descaladumidera - http://funkzpiel.tumblr.com/post/163080036614/descaladumidera-and-the-tag-read-simply


	12. The Lion and The Spider

In a normal little hallway, framed on either side by normal looking doors, was a familiar dark oak door — innocent and benign. It stood tall and ordinary, it’s golden handle gleaming gently from the light filtering in from the hall window. To a casual onlooker, it was just another door in a hall of many. To Theseus, it might as well have been made of iron bars. His hand shook as he moved to grab the handle, cold beneath his palm despite the warmth of the building itself — and that was his first and only warning.

The moment the door clicked open and parted from its frame, Theseus stumbled back; his sleeve up to mask his nose and mouth as though warding off the stench of death. There was no scent that Graves’ muggle neighbors would smell, but to a wizard, the scent of dark magic was a thick and heavy balm in the air. Oppressive and cloying. Sucking all pleasant thought from the space and people around it, hanging like a dreadful, pregnant mist.

Theseus fought down a gag, took a moment to check that the hall was truly empty, then finally stepped foot into the home his friend had created, only to be silently destroyed in. Wand at the ready beneath his sleeve, he let the door fall closed behind him with a soft and gentle click; darkness rising up on all sides to consume him.

“Alright old boy, you can do this,” Theseus muttered softly, closed his eyes, and whispered a hoarse, “ _Expecto Patronum._ ”

_Newt, small and smiling. Sitting on his shoulders, knobby knees bouncing, small hands in Theseus’ curls. His brother’s delighted giggles as Theseus stretched onto his tiptoes. Chubby fingers curling around the plump swell of a ripe apple. The soft pop of it parting from its branch. Newt curling around his head to show him the spoils of their effort._

_“This one, Theseus?”_

_Theseus took it from his hand, shined it on his shirt, and nodded._

_“Mum will love it, Newt. Nice pick.”_

_The soft thuds of the backs of his baby brother’s shoes as he kicked his feet excitedly, giggling at his praise._

_“Let’s go show her, Thes!”_

Light sputtered at his wand tip, only to disappear beneath the thick haze of contempt that had grown to fill the room. If he let himself, he could hear distant screams in the fabric and shifting folds of that darkness. Familiar and terrible, but never pleading. He shook his head before he could follow that voice too far down the rabbit hole.

Theseus did not bother to still his shaking hand. He let himself feel fear. After all, there was nothing wrong with fear. If you weren’t afraid, you weren’t brave.

“Again,” Theseus said into the darkness, sharper now. 

_“Cream or no cream?” Theseus asked, the two of them older now. Backs to the great tree on their family homestead, atop their favorite hill. Newt in his blue traveling coat, his hands busy sketching into one of his many journals as Theseus cut them both a slice of pie — just as they always did every brisk September 5th._

_“Is that even a question? I’m offended you even need to ask! It hasn’t been that long, Thes,” Newt said, scandalized. If only others could see him so open, Theseus thought. But quickly shook the thought away with a wry and knowing smile._

_“It actually_ has _been that long. But you’re right. Absolutely unforgivable, I’m a bloody fool. Cream, of course. We’re not monsters.”_

_Beside him, Newt blinked._

_“Has it really been that long?” He asked, eyes large beneath his worried ginger brows. His pencil stilling in his hands._

_“Between your travels and my caseloads…” Theseus started, then at seeing Newt’s guilty look just smiled. “Just means we need to be better about it, this year, huh.”_

_Theseus waved off the conversation before it could get any heavier. Watching as two slices of pie slid off the recently polished pie server and onto two plates. A dollop of cream atop them both as the apples oozed out from beneath their crusts, slow and syrupy._

_Newt let his pencil drop as Theseus handed him his plate, the little journal sliding from his lap to settling on the blanket spread beneath them. Above, their family’s apple tree swayed kindly, motherly — basking their parent’s graves in gentle shadows and dapples of light._

_“Anyways, cheers, brother. We made it another year.”_

_Newt smiled, a soft happiness on his lips. A nostalgic distance to his eyes as he tilted his head back to take in the shifting leaves of their tree._

_“Cheers,” he murmured back._

_The first bite was warm and nostalgic, but not quite perfect._ _Newt patted the tree’s old and wizened roots and chuckled._

_“Getting closer, Thes. I think he’ll nail it next year, Mum.”_

_Theseus smiled and bumped his thigh against his brother’s. Newt smiled back at him, eyes falling from the tree to catch his gaze in a rare instance. His brave and awkward baby brother, with his mother’s doe eyes and freckles._

_“Tell me about whatever it is you’re drawing now,” Theseus said, and leaned back into the hollow of the tree’s embracing roots as Newt toppled excitedly into a lengthy explanation about his newest addition to his case. His passion like notes of a familiar song, and in it he could see their family as it had been, before life and death had taken them all on separate paths._

_“I’m proud of you, Newt,” Theseus said as his brother’s tirade finally stumbled into a silent, happy end._

_Newt quickly looked up at him, curls in his eyes, and smiled broadly — his face a beacon of joy that made the blue sky that much bluer._

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

Light sprung from the tip of his wand in a fountain’s burst. Pooling into the form of a large and shocking lion. Light swayed in the texture of its mane, the marble of its fangs, the curl of its claws. And each silent step forward chased a little more and a little more of the darkness away until finally, Theseus could breathe again. Screaming replaced with Newt’s laughter, his mother’s off-key singing, and his father’s gentle chuckle. The bay of hippogriff’s, the swish of their apple tree’s leaves.

His free hand sought out the thick scruff of his patronus’ mane, and the moment his fingers slipped into the joyful tendrils of light that made up its coat, Theseus sighed. Grounded. 

“C’mon then.”

The place was as he remembered it, different only in the sense that it felt like the home of a man long dead. Not that it was dusty or neglected. No. It was as immaculate and put together as Graves always kept it. But there was a stale absence of life to each corner of the place.

Replaced by darkness and cruelty and malicious grins.

Everywhere he went, his patronus lit the way. A soft halo of light protecting him from the magical backlash Grindelwald had left behind. His hands trailed across the wallpaper. Traced each door knob as he passed. Echoes of memories clinging to his fingertips.

He avoided the bedroom for now, whose door stood partially open, a gruesome sigil carved into its front. While he knew it to be a coward’s choice, he forced himself to look away lest the origin of the darkness swallow him whole. Instead, he continued on to the reason he had come in the first place. Each step heavier and heavier as he got closer to Graves’ office.

A gentle nudge from his patronus opened the door for him. The silence was filled by the gentle hush of the door sliding over the carpet as his best friend’s office was revealed. There were the same books as before, if maybe a few more. A large map on the wall with glimmering icons of red twinkling across New York City; glimmering like dreadful little stars. And finally, the familiarity ended. Graves’ normally neat and orderly desk was instead covered in haphazard piles and documents. Books held open, their bindings broken by neglect and the length of time in which they had been left gaping. Scrawls of foreign handwriting covering this and that. Theseus let his hand slip from his patronus, unaware of how its light dimmed, and rounded the desk in a few quick strides. 

Nothing about Graves or his condition. Nothing about the collar, or his organization, or his plans. Instead, strange notes littered the desk. Papers that made no sense. Schematics of Muggle toys and transportation systems. Maps and other odd Muggle documents. Mechanical diagrams and technical things from Muggle industries that had no business clogging a wizard’s desk. He shifted the papers this way and that, remembering the reports he had received on what the American aurors had found when first investigating the apartment.

_‘The office was filled with erroneous information, no doubt meant to serve as distractions should he ever get caught.’_

Theseus felt a growl slip free from his teeth as he quickly began to thumb each useless document aside. Schematics and strange descriptions and reports slid off Graves’ desk one by one in a gentle flutter. Stilling only when he found _them_ — a scattering of familiar parchment at the bottom of the pile.

_To: P.G._

_From: T.S._

He had to squint his eyes now to see it as the gentle glow that had once filled the room slowly flickering into a haze. The letters shook as he took them into his hands. The edges sharp against his fingers as he scanned his own familiar words. Reading them like a ravenous man. Each letter doomed to join the last. His motions becoming frantic. 

_“I hope you are not overworking yourself.” — “The weather has been abysmal lately, you would hate it.” — “Our leads have gone stale. Again.” — “I hope your luck has been better.” — “Friendly reminder to eat your fucking lunch, Percival! I saw you in the papers, have you lost more weight?!”_

One after another after another.

 

> _August 6th, 1926_
> 
> _“I received your letter in a rather peculiar way today. Did you change owl services? Or purchase one? He seems too off brand from traditional post owls, but I know you, you’d never have an owl in your home. Won’t even get a dog. “Away too much for it”. Honestly, the company would be good for you — but I can already picture the exasperated face you must be making. Yes, we have had this conversation before. No, we don’t need to go through it again._
> 
> _I’m just saying, dogs are called ‘man’s best friend’ for a reason, Percival. In lieu of a dog, at least you have me, huh? That’s right, that dog idea suddenly sounds much better, doesn’t it? You boring old man.”_

Theseus let it fall, its hard edges clacking loudly onto the desktop. Another letter took its place.

> _October 15th, 1926_
> 
> _“Percival, you might think me a bit of a berk for even considering it, but I’ve got a date tonight. Probably nothing, to be honest, but I have to admit - the anticipation has me feeling young again. I don’t know when I started to think of myself as old, but it happened… I know what we said, you and I, all those years ago over scotch._ _Too much scotch._ _That we’d never do it. That we’d never be those blokes who get into this field and think we could have a family, keep them safe. But more and more I notice families on the street as I walk to work. Parents holding their children’s hands… And suddenly, life feels so short._
> 
> _Is it so wrong, to want that?_
> 
> _I shouldn’t go, I know. And by the time this reaches you, it’ll be too late for you to dissuade me. Don’t worry. I’ll scare this beauty away soon enough. But honestly, Percival… Maybe you should consider it? You deserve happiness, pup. We all do.”_

Theseus jerked this one from his pile too, discarding it to lay with its brother. Eyes already pouring over the next one.

> _December 1st, 1926_
> 
> _“Apologies for waiting so long to write back to you, mate. The investigation has hit a number of road blocks since last we spoke… Namely, the loss of three men. Christ, Percival, what happened to the world? I thought that fortune favored the bold and the just, and they’re dead. I would have thought this would have gotten easier after the war — surviving. But it still hurts all the same. I led them and they’re dead. Marty was going to have a son in a few months here._
> 
> _I know that we work in the name of justice, not vengeance, but… if I catch him, I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist…”_

Pages and pages of correspondence with a _fraud_. And not once did Theseus notice. Not once did Theseus catch any irregularity in ‘Percival’s’ letters. Was his friend so easily replaceable? Was he truly so blind? Again and again, he tossed the letters. His heart thumping in his ears, the light dimming. His vision tunneled, his palms sweaty until finally, pain brought him back to the present.

A paper cut.

He hissed a soft curse, the remaining letters falling to the desktop as he brought his thumb up. Watching the way his blood bloomed to a pregnant swell before becoming too heavy, sliding down his thumb. He sucked it into his mouth and braced himself against the desk, head bowed. Just letting himself feel it - the sting. Throbbing in beat with the swollen ache of his heart.

Piles of letters, several of which had been postmarked _after_ Percival’s presumed date of kidnapping. Not one. Not two. Several. His hand shook in his mouth. Pulling away to smear a dot of red against his lip as he used it too to brace himself. Shaking like he might fall apart.

Every promise of brotherhood. Every pact of friendship. And what for?

Months — and Theseus not once noticed.

Months.

Not only had he not noticed, he had been corresponding with the very dark wizard who had killed his men, killed Marty. Spilling his fucking heart out in ink just so their murderer could sit back wearing his friend’s face and gloat. Punctual in his response as Percival always had been, even at his busiest, and just as fucking heartfelt.

_“It is times like these that I try and remind myself that the best we can give the dead is to honor them in living. But it’s hard, I know. We hardly work in a service conducive to honoring our fellow witches and wizards, now do we? Keep the faith, Theseus. This will all be over soon enough.”_

Theseus felt weak in the knees, remembering Percival’s words. Each letter branded into his mind, because he had reread the note of understanding and encouragement over and over, waiting to feel that confidence his friend was so obviously trying to pitch. Only to find out it had been Grindelwald. _‘This will all be over soon,’_ said the letter. _‘Keep the faith’._

Were he in any room but this, he’d have thrown the desk. Toppled it over just to expel the burning rage searing his lungs and chest like a wildfire. But this was _Percival’s_ office. And while his desk had been consumed by a madman, the bookshelves and the trinkets and the paintings were all still very much ghosts of his friend, and he couldn’t bear to shatter this last remnant of him.

Instead he collapsed into the chair Grindelwald must have sat in, heels no doubt up and scuffing the immaculate gloss of Percival’s family desk. Air swept from his collapse and shifted the many letters on the desk until finally, after a moment of weary blankness, something caught his eye. Something was peeking out from between the disorganized mess of his correspondence. Another letter, but not his. Familiar looping letters, quick but elegant. Grindelwald, he thought immediately, but then…why wouldn’t he have sent it? He looked at the date and felt as though his breath had been punched from his lungs.

> _July 31st, 1926_
> 
> _I hear you’re officially leading the investigation after what happened to Former Director Alfred Beaufort, God rest his soul. And if I know you, you’re smiling confidently on the outside but drinking yourself sick at home stressing about this. Please don’t drive yourself crazy in the dark trying to shoulder this burden alone. If anyone can catch him, it’s you. You’re a clever man and you’re leading a team of some of the most brilliant aurors of our generation. And I’m prepared to advocate that we send support, if you need more man power. Grindelwald is not just Europe’s problem. We must act as a community if we’re going to stop this man, and I’ll ensure America does her part, just say the word._
> 
> _You’re not alone in this, Whiskers. I’m here._
> 
> _You know where to find me._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _P.G._

He sucked in a shaking breath, labored and hitching. He bowed his heads into his hands, clenched useless fingers into his hair, and screamed. Howled into the darkness as finally, his patronus flickered out. Leaving him along in the shadows of Percival’s prison. A lonely man, surrounded by death.

It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair!_

It should have been him! If Theseus had just done his job and caught the bastard in England, this wouldn’t have happened. But instead, his best friend was paying for the price of his inadequacy. For his blindness and his pride. Taking the hit for him, as he had for Picquery all those years ago and as he had for Theseus during the war. Never once stopping to think about himself…

He couldn’t leave it like this. He couldn’t leave _Percival_ like this. He couldn’t abandon him. Not after months of blind ignorance. Not after everything.

In Theseus’ life, there had been many things he had sacrificed in the name of service and glory. His innocence, his quality of sleep. His relationship with his family, friends. A family of his own. Willingly, he had sacrificed much in his life.

He would not sacrifice Percival Graves.

He thought of his friend’s face, of his smile. He closed his eyes and let the memory fill the space in his chest that sorrow had carved out.

_“Looking pretty sallow for a young fella,” Percival said, sliding up behind Theseus in the mirror to turn him and fix the tie of his uniform. Smile warm and bright and excited beneath the muted tone all aurors and war vets tended to carry._

_“You came,” Theseus said, voice hushed, too tired for shock or excitement._

_Percival paused to look up at him, confused. “Of course I came.”_

_“I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you hadn’t,” Theseus said softly. Percival scoffed and shook his head, resuming his job of straightening the crisp lines of the British man’s suit._

_“The only person who believes you don’t deserve this medal is you, Theseus. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I’m proud of you.”_

_“My decisions killed a man, Percival,” Theseus said, and his friend stilled._

_“They did,” the dark haired man finally said, and Theseus waited for it: the disgust. But it didn’t come. Instead, Graves cupped the back of his neck in the way Theseus himself had always done whenever a fellow soldier couldn’t breathe, and bowed the taller man down so their foreheads touched — eye to eye. “A good leader is not a man who saves everyone. It’s impossible. You can’t save them all… and sometimes that means the unforgivable. That man’s family may never see you as I see you. And that’s their right.”_

_And when Theseus tried to look away, Percival held him tighter. Dipped to regain his gaze._

_“But there a lot of men that see you as I see you. A good ol’ boy, trying his best. Willing to kneel before the blade to save others. Too humble to see he deserves to be honored.”_

_“You saved those men, not me,” Theseus muttered, voice tight. “More would have died, if not for you.”_

_“We saved those men together. And_ I _would have died if not for_ you _. That’s what a team does, Whiskers. They look after each other as best they can, and when that’s not enough, they honor the dead as best they can. A man died. I miss him every day. But the ones who lived want to thank you. The families you protected by serving in war want to thank you. Your queen wants to thank you. Honor the dead by honoring the living. Let them pin that medal on your shoulder, and strive to do better. That’s the best we can do. That’s all we can do. Strive, and hope it’s enough.”_

_“And if it’s not?”_

_Percival smiled._

_“You’ll still have me.”_

Light spilled into the room as though the sun itself had risen. Filling each cranny with warmth and life. Memories of Percival brought breath back into the room, and immediately what felt dark and dank and hopeless felt full and powerful and familiar again. It was no longer the office that had been stolen, but _Percival’s_ office. The think tank and safe haven of his best friend. 

So instead of destruction, Theseus took his friend’s word to heart and did the only thing he could do. He did his best to fix it. Magically sorted all the documents that had been Grindelwald’s into a box and carefully put Percival’s desk back to order. Straightened his books as he knew he liked to keep them. Healed neglected bindings and dusted their fragile surfaces. He worked until every shadow of Grindelwald had been wiped clean, his lion at his side all the while - pressing against his side. 

“What do you think, ol’ boy?” He asked, his fingers naturally sliding into its translucent mane. The lion purred, and in it, he heard Percival’s laughter. Theseus nodded. “Yes. I think so too… Let’s go. We have a good man to save.”

He passed Percival’s bedroom without looking back, and after, darkness seeped out from beneath the door — filling the spaces the light had cleansed.

 

* * *

 

Theseus returned to MACUSA like a man on a mission, and the moment his men saw him, they all stood a little straighter. A light entered their eyes in kind to the spark in their leader’s, and his fire seemed to run through them all like a spark ignites a line of gunpowder — all that energy funneling toward one end.

“With me,” Theseus said as he passed his men in the hall, urging them to their feet with nothing more than a glance and a merciless pace. They scrambled after him, grabbing their hats and their things in a rush to keep up. 

“What’s going on, boss?” Shaw — one of his most trusted men — asked, jogging up to fall into step with him.

“I’ve got a plan,” Theseus said, but it’ll deviate from the one the Ministry approved.

“Boss,” another auror, Frye, cautioned, but did not particularly object, not fully.

“I know. But Percival Graves has been a friend not only to myself, but to the Crown, and we would not be the country nor the allies we tote ourselves to be if we did not include recent findings into consideration. I’m calling a meeting, nothing more. I… I have to try,” Theseus said, eyes sliding to them with only a flicker of doubt — a flicker of humanity — for the first time since his confident entrance. His men sucked in a breath at the vulnerability, as though puffing themselves up to defend his honor. 

“It’s worth a listen,” Shaw nodded sagely, “Percival Graves was a good man.”

“ _Is_ a good man,” Frye corrected, “And I agree. If you have ideas, I think its worth our time to consider them.”

“Good,” Theseus said, steel reentering his spine. “Hopefully everyone will see it that way. There’s thirty Ministry aurors and merlin knows how many American officials to convince.”

“Only one that matters,” Shaw pointed out, and Theseus felt his brows draw down instinctively, hoping that the changes he had seen till now were legitimate. 

“So it would seem. Frye, gather the others,” he said, and thrust open the doors to the room Picquery had told him she’d be waiting in.

The War Room.

A huge room with an opulent black table in its center, circular as though the protective table from the knights of old. Huge long backed chairs all around it, and on the other side of the table from the door, a chair more opulent than the rest. Obviously the president’s chair, and yet Picquery was not there. Instead, she stood behind the chair directly to it’s right - unoccupied and unimaginative, but obvious all the same. Percival’s seat. She had a few aurors seated to either side of her, but their hushed words fell dead the moment he entered the room. They immediately tensed. Eyes dark and snarling. But Picquery stood tall, her fingers tightening atop the chair, and held his gaze.

“You’ve returned.”

“I have.”

“And did you find what you were looking for?”

Theseus nodded as behind him, his men slowly began to filter in.

“I did. Madam President, please summon any men or women you intend to involve tonight. I have a proposition.”

“A proposition? I thought you would be briefing us on the plan for tonight?”

Theseus stood a little straighter and said, “There’s been a change of plans,” and held his breath as he watched Picquery’s jaw tighten. Something hard and untrusting entered her eyes, and he waited for it — the proof he knew was already there. That she was a snake, as she had always been, and not to be trusted. But something in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Percival urged him to try, and so he did.

“Then time is of the essence,” she finally said, withdrawing from their standoff with a brisk swish of her robes before finally taking a seat in the grand chair beside the vacant space where Percival once sat. 

Theseus schooled his face, but could not quite hold back a surprised blink. She quirked a brow at him before gesturing to the table at large as various men and women began to take their seats, Tina among them.

“Thank you, Madam President,” Theseus said, head tipped in respect as he stepped forward, not quite able to convince himself to sit. Too anxious, too excited, too worked up. His knee would be bouncing the entire time, and to sell this, he needed to look composed. Confident. He cleared his throat as idle chatter ended, all eyes suddenly on him. “As you well know, tonight is the night Grindelwald finally leaves America and justice is served. I’ll be frank with you all, there is a mission that the Ministry of Magic approved and… one they have not.”

Around the table, people stirred. Uncomfortable. Intrigued. Theseus continued.

“That is not because they wouldn’t if given the chance, but because new information has come to light that must be considered. Information we don’t have time to pass across their desks. Specifically that Percival Graves, America’s Director of Magical Security, is in far worse condition than the Ministry and this administration let on,” and before any American aurors could protest, he raised one hand to stay them. “All for legitimate reasons, regardless of whether or not I or anyone at this table particularly enjoys being kept in the dark. That said, it’s been brought to my attention that quite recently, some aspect of cognizance returned to Director Graves during his rehabilitation with my brother.”

And at this, the room stilled. Breath held until not a sound remained. In her chair, Picquery straightened. 

“And?”

“He fell to whatever spell the collar holds once more, but before he did, he revealed this - that the only person who can safely remove that collar is Grindelwald. On some level, I’m sure we all expected it.”

“He’s his shield,” one of the American aurors snarled, lip curled, and Picquery sent a sympathetic look their way.

“So it would seem. But if that’s true, why hasn’t he come to us yet with a bargain?”

“As you said, he’s playing a game,” Theseus said. “A dangerous game. So my proposal is this. Before we spirit Grindelwald away, we make him remove that bloody collar.”

“If he hasn’t offered, it may be that he doesn’t intend to bargain with us at all,” another auror said. “He might just get off on crippling us. Hitting us where it hurts. He’s a madman, I wouldn’t be surprised if all along, this was just some twisted power play.”

“That may be true, Ms. Scott, but we won’t know until we try. The only thing left to lose is our pride, and I for one am willing to pay that price if it means saving our director.”

“There’s a lot of risk here, Theseus,” Blackwall said from beside him, eyes not unfeeling, but cautious all the same. He was one of the oldest and most experience men at that table, and his word was hard to deny. “We could be playing right into his hands. A good number of folks in this room will be emotionally compromised. Focused on if Grindelwald can fix him rather than containing a mass murderer. Distractions like that get men killed, and it’s all based on a — forgive me for saying it — brainwashed and tortured man’s word. Are you willing to jeopardize this mission for one man?” 

Theseus curled his hands atop the chair and allowed himself to nod, to let his head hang ever so slightly lower, and leveled with the men and women around the table. “You’re right. By all unbiased accounts, this mission is foolish. It could get us killed, if we’re not careful. It could give him the opportunity he needs to escape. Potentially gives him a hostage, if we’re not focused. And all the while, it may be for nothing… But the thing that makes us different from him is compassion and a thirst for justice. We are civil servants, and right now that man in my brother’s case is not the Director of Magical Security, he’s a civilian. It’s our job to protect people in the magical community. To keep them safe and help them as best we can. Who are we then, if we turn away from this man’s plight? There’s no shortage of people in this very room that he has gone out of his way to help. Damn the consequences, I have seen Percival Graves kneel more times than I can count, so that someone in the mud might use him as a stepping stone to salvation. It’s our turn to return the favor. I for one wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t try. But… I will not press it, if this room is not in agreement. So what say you?”

Theseus didn’t need to look to know that the American aurors were on his side. At once, all of them turned to look at their president. Sizing her up while simultaneously hoping for a miracle. Across from him, Picquery folded her hands and pressed her lips atop her knuckles, regarding him. Silence hung heavy over the table as they waited. Until finally, she pulled back from her hands.

“What is your plan, Director Scamander?”

“An auror on either side of him, killing curse readied. Two more at the doors. Two aurors at my back. And two aurors for every civilian in the room. Interspersed between your men and mine. And of course, all the aurors guarding the room from outside.”

“I see two things wrong with this plan,” Picquery said immediately, and Theseus felt his blood draw still.

“How many civilians do you intend to have in this room, and you miscounted. Two more at my back as well.”

An American auror rose to their feet. An old, grizzled looking man who had obviously survived more in this life than he’d like to admit.

“Madam, you can’t be serious,” he said, but he did not raise his voice. Beyond standing, he did no other loud gesture. His voice tempered with experience and concern. 

“Quite serious, John. That man is not only my director and right hand, but my brother. I’ve failed him too many times to turn my back on him now. For the first time in this administration, I’ll be making a decision as Seraphina Picquery rather than Madam President, and I _will_ be in that room.”

Slowly, John sat. Obviously displeased, but there was a light in his eye that said no one could stop him from being in that room either. 

“Then I’m yours, Madam,” he said gruffly, as close to an order as an auror could ever deliver to their president. And graciously, she nodded.

Heads turned as Tina piped up, and not for the first time Theseus felt something familiar in the way she spoke, in the way she thought. 

“Madam President, with all due respect, I think you should reconsider.”

“And why is that, Auror Goldstein?”

Tina swallowed hard, but continued on without any further hesitation.

“Pretty didn’t exactly react well to you, last time you two met…”

Theseus let his eyes track from Tina to the president, and sure enough he saw something fissure in her decision.

When he met her gaze, he did not need to ask what had happened. He could see it in the sharp hurt that lingered in her eyes. Somehow, Grindelwald had used her against Graves. Either in brainwashing him against her or by instilling doubt of her loyalty in him. Regardless, she was right. The president was more a liability than an asset. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be, she’s right…” she responded, her neck long where she raised her chin, the mask he had come to recognize as cruel now becoming more a shield than a knife. “Just see to it that this works, Director.”

With a nod, Theseus continued.

“Two civilians,” he said. “The director himself and his handler, my brother.”

Picquery blinked.

“Mere hours ago you were upset he was involved. Now you’re involving him yourself?”

“Not because I want to,” Theseus said simply, nodding his head in acknowledgement of her claim. “I can tell you without having consulted him yet that he will not stand idly by on anything that involves his charge. And I don’t have the time to fight him.”

“Two potential hostages, then,” Blackwall said.

“More than that,” Theseus fired back. “There’s the president and myself. And he knows any auror in that room is valued. Not just for their power, but as a comrade. As a friend or a brother or a spouse. He has no shortage of opportunities to stop us in our tracks. That is why we must work together. Whatever bad blood there might be in this room ends here and now, or we will fail. We’ll fail our countries, the magical community, and the very man who disappeared beneath all our noses. Now. Are there any objections?” He asked, and felt his throat tighten, his breath hitch. 

Seconds ticked by, and no one stirred but to look at one another. Determination bled into the face of every man and woman there until finally, Picquery stood - unfurling gracefully from her chair until she was staring him in the eye.

“America is with you, Director Scamander.”

Theseus nodded, then look to his own men. These tired aurors who were being asked to risk life and limb for a stranger and a stranger’s country. He wouldn’t blame them, if they argued. Not for a second. Instead, Shaw just leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“We’ve always been with you, boss. Where you go, we go.”

Theseus felt a whiskey warm smile bleed across his face. Wild and young.

“Then let’s get started. Tina, fetch my brother. Tonight, we save Percival Graves.” 

 

* * *

 

Not long after that, a messenger mouse scurried onto the table of the war room - it’s long paper tail wagging as it sought out its recipient. It climbed over maps and zoomed past strange hands until finally coming to a halt in front of Theseus, chirping twice. 

The British director scooped it up without a word, eyes pouring over the note the moment it unfurled, only to reveal Newt’s familiar scrawl.

_“Tina told me everything…_

_Meet me in the director’s office. I’d like to talk with you.”_

“Just a moment, Madam President,” Theseus said, pulling away from the determined chatter of the war room to the office he had only visited a handful of times, if that, but still knew the way by heart.

He paused, the doors to the office cracked — caught by the lonely sight of his brother. Newt was trailing the many bookshelves of Graves’ office. Fingers shaking as he hovered them over this or that, never touching. As though afraid these last bits of Graves might disappear, but too fascinated to leave them completely alone all the same. He seemed smaller, somehow. Willowy like when he was young. Not that he wasn’t normally willowy, but he seemed less than usual. Hollow, like something special had been scooped out of him and never replaced. His curls limp, his hair dull. Something in Theseus wilted. Another beautiful thing in his life tainted by the darkness of this world — and he couldn’t stop it.

And on the desk between them sat the case, where Tina was no doubt watching over Newt’s charge.

“Newt,” Theseus said, the doors moving soundlessly as he entered Graves’ office. Newt turned to look at him, fingers trailing sadly from the place they had been tracing the director’s various knickknacks and books. 

“He was a person,” Newt said, and Theseus felt his heart lurch at the sound of his baby brother’s distance and confusion. “He had books and he liked old magical artifacts and he seemed to be interested in herbology. He… He was a person, Theseus. A _different_ person.”

“Yes,” Theseus said, walking to stand in front of his friend’s big, familiar black desk. Immaculate in a way the one in his flat had not been. Grindelwald had made sure to keep up his ruse here, at least. His fingers followed the lines of Graves’ signature. He had always thought his friend to have unique handwriting. Lilting and elegant. And yet, so easily copied… “He was. He _is_. He’s in there somewhere, Newt. We have to help him.”

“It’s not just him in there anymore though, is it? Pretty is a person, too,” Newt started, but Theseus felt a storm crumple the once calm surface of his face. Making Newt pause.

“Is that what this is all about? That thing is a distortion, not a person. The result of Grindelwald’s madness.”

“Regardless of who made him, he exists! _”_

“And so Graves loses all rights to his body because of this, this _thing_ that has existed for what, a few weeks?”

“Over half a year,” Newt said, and silence fell between them. “Pretty has existed for over half a year now, Theseus. He’s not a concept, he’s not the beginning stages of something that can be reversed. He’s… He’s real. Jesus, Thes, I’ve been with him nonstop for days! You can’t expect me to ignore that he’s living in there too!”

“I do!” Theseus boomed. “Percival is the victim here, not Pretty! Christ, how could you side with that thing?!”

“He’s not a thing, he’s a man — and I’m not siding with anyone, I’m just saying that this might not be as simple as we think! He might not be the manifestation of some spell anymore! He could well and truly be part of Graves’ psyche now and you know it!”

Theseus braced his hands onto his friend’s desk and hung his head. He forced a steadying breath through his nostrils and didn’t say the first words that came to mind, nor the second. He considered what his brother had said. Newt was soft of heart, yes, but he wasn’t unreasonable. He didn’t leave the Obscurial in that girl in Sudan just because it was a living creature too. Granted, a dark and twisted thing — but just because Pretty smiled so sweet didn’t spare him of the truth: that Pretty was the manifestation of a dark and twisted magic. So if Newt was conflicted, it wasn’t without reason. He knew the difference between the rescue of a dangerous magical creature and the sanctity of human life. The only question was, which life did he find to be the one worth protecting…

When next Theseus spoke, it was cold and dead and tired. A voice that would not be swayed.

“What would they say, Newt, if they knew? What would Tina say if she knew you didn’t want to take this opportunity? Our first _real_ opportunity to get Percival back. Maybe our last. What would Queenie say? Or his staff? Or Picquery? How would you explain it to them, Newt?”

“That’s not fair, Theseus,” Newt croaked, arms drawing around his ribs as he shrank away. 

Theseus relented.

“I know you’ve grown attached,” he finally murmured, but with a tone more befitting a parent telling a child that they could not keep the stray they found. “But I don’t know if we can save them both, Newt. And if there’s a choice to be made, Pretty is not the one I’m going to fight for — nor is he the one that _you_ should be fighting for. He’s a construction, nothing more. A pile of strange behaviors tailored by Grindelwald and topped with _dog ears_.”

“A pile of strange behaviors…” Newt chuckled sadly, unable to meet Theseus’ gaze. Fingers tracing the gold that outlined Graves’ desk. “Are we any different?”

Theseus felt his lips purse.

“What do you want from me, Newt?”

Newt sighed and shook his head with a shrug that swallowed his neck between his shoulders, and suddenly he looked so damn young - and with a start, Theseus wondered when he started to see his younger brother as _old._

“I just want you to consider the possibility that none of this is as simple as two men in one body. You’re hellbent on saving a man that might not come back the way you’re expecting and I… I think you should prepare yourself for that.”

The older Scamander brother let himself slowly hiss out the breath he had been holding, his shoulders slowly falling as he did.

“Pathetic pair we make, huh? Fighting over something neither of us properly understand.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Newt chuckled, something far away in the sound. So unlike the laugh from the memories that fueled his patronus. 

“No… it wouldn’t be.”

Silence fell between them. Not awkward or uncomfortable, but merely there. A hush of rest for the both of them. Newt’s gaze fell on the case on the desk and sighed, fingers tracing its outline.

“Something just doesn’t feel right about all this is all,” Newt said.

Theseus nodded, head heavy between his shoulders again, and agreed.

“Welcome to being an auror,” Theseus said.

Newt wrinkled his nose.

“I never wanted to be an auror,” he said. “I don’t care about glory or the hunt. I just want to help.”

Theseus let out a cold, wry laugh and wrapped a knuckle against the desk beneath his palms.

“You and him — _Percival…_ You’re so similar it hurts sometimes. Just wanting to do the right thing.”

“Don’t you?” Newt asked, hushed.

“And what’s _right_ , Newt? In a world of no perfect answers, who deserves to be saved in this?”

“They both do.”

“You can’t save everybody, Newt. You know that.”

Something suspiciously wet bloomed in his brother’s eyes, a memory sore and distant in those hazel depths, and Theseus forced himself to watch as Newt hastily scrubbed each bottom lash with the heels of his hands before sucking in a breath.

“Do you think Grindelwald can fix this?”

“I do,” Theseus said. “For one of them.”

“For Percival,” Newt clarified, sagging wearily when Theseus nodded.

“And if he can’t?”

Theseus drew himself tall, straightened his coat, and dawned the familiar safety of an authoritative mask. He was taller than his brother, but it was more apparent now when Newt shrank.

“Then I take Grindelwald back to England, as planned — and I suppose you get your wish. You won’t have to choose between them.”

Newt swallowed.

“That’s not fair, Thes,” he repeated, and Theseus nodded, not arguing.

“It rarely is.”

Newt merely nodded, resigned.

“He deserves to know,” he said, looking up only when Theseus blinked.

“Who?”

“Pretty. He deserves to know. I won’t fight you, but I’m not going to carry him to that madman in my case and give him no clue about what’s happening. He trusts me. And regardless of what you think about him, he’s… He deserves better. He deserves to know.”

“We can tell him,” Theseus said. “If you think that’s best.”

“No, I’ll tell him,” Newt said. “Alone.”

“Newt, this isn’t your fault. You don’t have to do this all by yourself—“

“Oh believe me, I want you to come. I want you to have to look at his face when I tell him he’s not wanted. That he’s being sacrificed for something he doesn’t understand and had no control over. But this isn’t about you and me, Theseus. I need to do this alone. He deserves that much.”

Theseus felt something cold steal over the expanse of his heart. A wedge suddenly shoved between them. This was killing Newt. And in Newt’s eyes, his big brother would never be the same. Their relationship yet another casualty of Theseus’ career.

“Fair enough, Newt,” Theseus said, drawing himself as tall as he could, but suddenly feeling so short. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

With a small nod and averted eyes, Newt popped open the case and slipped inside. Theseus watched him as he went, dreading how things would change between them when his baby brother returned. The case snapped shut, and he let himself stew in silence before finally he let out a short, hoarse shout and kicked the chair nearest him — toppling it across the room.

In his turmoil all that answered him was the echo of his rage.

 

* * *

 

Newt found Pretty with Tina on the very rock they had sat on the last time his friend had taken watch over their dog-eared charge. They were shoulder to shoulder, the two of them, with their arms about their knees like children. Tina was smiling, but there was a wet and weary glaze to her eyes that belied her pain. And Newt could tell that Pretty could see it. His tail curling around her, staying close. He heard their approach before she did, his ears perking back in his direction before turning to regard him. His tail wagged hard at the sight of Newt, then slowed the moment he took in his slow stride, his weary expression. 

“Percy, what’s wro—?” Tina let the words fall, dead and unfinished, as she caught sight of him as well. She pursed her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s time?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said as he came to a halt just a few feet shy of them.

Without a word, Pretty’s brown eyes fell upon him. Looking for direction, for comfort. Newt felt something in him wither away. 

“Tina,” he said softly. “Can you… can you give us a moment?”

Without a word, Tina swept up to her feet. She ran her fingers through Pretty’s hair one last time, then nodded and passed Newt with a small pause to grip his shoulder.

“Of course,” she said, “I’ll be outside.”

And then she was gone. If Newt allowed himself, he could almost imagine that things were as they were just a day or two ago. Sharing life in his quiet case. Caring for the creatures. With a sigh he steeled himself and moved to take Tina’s place beside his charge. 

Pretty eagerly made room for him, quickly moving to lean into his space the moment Newt had settled. The Magizoologist could feel the man’s ribs against his side and had to readjust his posture to support them both. But it was worth it, to comfort him like this. Even if his leg would soon go numb. 

He allowed himself a moment to just enjoy him, to enjoy this. The soft kiss of his artificial sun warming their skin. The smell of the tall grass, the sounds of the creatures he had saved. He moved to press his nose and lips into Pretty’s hair as the man moved to nestle into his throat. Snuffling softly, worried for his friend. Ears curiously flicking against the line of Newt’s jaw. It only made it hurt more.

He held him kindly, in the way he had not quite allowed himself to do. He held him like he was valued, close and gently. He wound his fingers through his dark, dark hair and plucked blades of grass from it. He traced the place where inhuman ears met fragile scalp and rubbed the skin there lightly. Unminding of the way Pretty’s tail wagged, or that he should not have a tail to wag at all. He closed his eyes and pictured a life like this. A life where Pretty could exist.

He wondered what that would be like. What Pretty would be like. He imagined him living away from cities like New York. In the mountains somewhere, maybe. Living amongst the nature that accepted him for what he was. Soft jumpers and sweaters sleeves so long they eclipsed his hands. Warm cups of sweet coffee and hazel, and flowers in the window boxes. Surrounded by creatures that loved him, followed him, protected him. 

Everything he deserved.

Newt looked down at his charge, at the soft flush of his dark lashes against his cheeks and the small curve of his nose. And in him, Newt saw something fathomless — something timeless in his eyes. As though the mysteries of the earth and the trees and the mountains had been born into one body, just as quiet and steadfast, wholly accepting of any who might live around him. Bearing the rage of storms if it meant protecting the creatures that lived upon him. Barely a year old, raised by cruelty and loneliness. All that pain and misery. And it just made him kind.

The world did not deserve Percival Graves, but it did not deserve Pretty either.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his calm demeanor punched from his lungs like a gunshot. Something in his muscles, in the way his fingers paused, gave him away. In his lap, Pretty whined softly, and when he looked down it was to two big, brown eyes staring at him — worried.

“Something’s wrong?” Pretty asked, a soft shiver bleeding into the skin beneath Newt’s fingers. “Something’s…bad?”

Newt hid his face into the man’s hair again and murmured into his skin.

“Percy,” he said slowly, searching for the words and finding all of them lacking. “Do you remember the man you said you saw? The one from the dark.”

“The one you’re looking for,” Pretty said, and Newt nodded. 

“That’s him. We think we’ve found a way to help him.”

Pretty tilted his head, big ears flopping curiously, and Newt sucked in a short, pained breath. Seeing his discomfort, Pretty pressed closer hesitantly.

“I’ll help,” he said. “How?”

Newt licked his lips and forced himself to pull back and meet those earnest brown eyes.

“We have to take you to Grindelwald,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully. “He’s the only one who can help.” 

Pretty perked up, ears piqued, back straight. His tail thumped heavily twice, then slowed into smaller wiggling thumps. 

“Master’s back?”

“Yes, he is,” Newt said, but could not help but avert his eyes for a moment as he considered what next to say. He sucked in a soft breath and Pretty slowly stilled in his embrace. “But there’s something I need to tell you. About him.”

Pretty whined softly, high and quiet in his throat. Head tilted. Leaning back to better address Newt even though he could tell the man wanted nothing more than to get closer. 

“Your master — _Grindelwald —_ is in trouble. A lot of trouble. We’re going to take you to him, but you’re not going to like what you see.”

Slowly, Pretty pulled away. Cold and shaking.

“He’s in trouble?”

“Yes. He’s… He’s been arrested, Percy.”

“And we’re going to help him, too,” Pretty concluded, looking sure of himself. The furrows between his brows weighing heavily on Newt’s heart as he looked up to him for reassurance and confirmation. “You’re going to help him? Like you’ve been helping me?”

Newt swallowed, and when next he spoke, his voice was as dry as dying bones.

“I don’t know if I can,” he lied, bile in his throat at the throat of helping that madman.

Pretty shivered and shook his head, his lips pulled into a heavily, confused little frown.

“I don’t understand.”

“Like I said, he’s in a lot of trouble. If he decides to help us, they may be more…lenient in how they decide to handle him. But there’s no freeing him, Percy. He’s not coming back.”

Something wet rose on Pretty’s bottom lashes, and Newt felt his heart fissure and swell. How unfair the world was, to turn a good man into something so soft and kind, and make him love something so heartless. Grindelwald did not deserve Pretty’s concern. Not a single thing that man had done in his life was worthy of so much as one drop of Pretty’s tears. But he had them and him all the same. 

For however long Pretty would exist.

“He’s not coming back,” Pretty repeated in a whisper, and Newt had never heard the man sound so lonely. He leaned forward to cup that lost face into his palms, big thumbs scrubbing the tears away from beneath his lashes and atop his cheeks. Unintentionally smooshing his cheeks into something soft and vulnerable, and Newt could barely breathe, his own body wracked with mourning.

“I’m sorry, Pretty,” he said, unheeding of the name, of its significance. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you.”

He knew the man thought he meant he wished he could help his master. He’d never know the true intention of the apology. He’d never know how much Newt wanted to help them both, him and Percival Graves. How he had barely slept, kept up at night as he was by the weight of both their lives in his hands. He had never felt so hollow, so thin, so useless as he did in that moment. 

The only moments that could compare were failing the little girl from Sudan, watching Credence die, and the war. Even braced in holding Pretty’s face, Newt felt his hands begin to tremble. Stilling only when Pretty’s own hands rose to cup over them.

“What is going to happen to me?” He asked, eyes downcast and wet. 

“I don’t know,” Newt said honestly, ducking to catch his gaze. “But whatever happens, I’ll be with you every step of the way. No matter what. For as long as you will have me.”

Pretty whimpered, and Newt felt his brows draw taut. 

But whatever had upset him, he didn’t deign to comment on it further. Ears back, he merely sucked in a sharp little breath and nodded between Newt’s palms. 

“Can we… stay here? For just a little bit?” And the tremble in that question felt like a knife running through Newt’s guts. He brought Pretty close again, enveloping him in arms that could not protect him, and whispered, “For just a little bit,” and even he didn’t know who the words were meant to comfort.

“Okay,” Pretty said.

“Okay,” Newt replied, and it sounded like goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Climbing the steps of his case back into Graves' office felt more like the marching of a funeral procession than a march to freedom. Each step heavy and slow, his shoulders burdened as though by the weight of a casket for a man that didn’t exist. When he reached the top, he could not meet Theseus’ gaze. Too angry to try whereas for his brother, normally he would make the effort. And it hurt him, Newt could tell, but he was hurting too. Instead, he turned on heel to offer a hand down to the face that looked up at him from within the case, hesitant, his eyes still pink. He snuffled softly, his brown gaze pinned fast to Theseus. 

“It’s okay,” Newt said, his fingers closing around Pretty’s hand as the man slowly took his proffered palm. He helped him up, careful not to rush him, and together Pretty exited Newt’s case for the first time of his own accord. Potentially the last. 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Theseus said, and Newt bristled but tried not to let it show. His bones like magnets set against similar ends, unable to sit right. “He’s not getting away.” 

Pretty blinked at him, a confused light entering his eyes, but Newt quickly swept between them, filling the man’s gaze. He put his hands on either of the former director’s shoulders and squeezed him gently. 

“What he means to say is that we are going to be with you every step of the way,” Newt said. “Okay?”

Pretty gazed at him for a long time, his eyes tracing the lines of Newt’s face, before finally nodding.

“Okay,” he whispered back. 

Newt nodded to him, their foreheads close, then finally pulled away — his hand slipping Pretty’s into his own and holding tight.

“Together,” he said, and squeezed him, and he almost hated himself when it worked — when Pretty’s demeanor visibly eased. With a last glance to his charge, he turned to address his brother, eyes on Theseus’ brow. “What’s the plan, Thes?”

“We have aurors stationed outside the perimeter of the Woolworth building, along all travel halls, and ready within the chamber itself. We’re going to go to him, the doors are to be sealed behind us, and we are going to force him to—” He trailed off, eyes roving over Pretty, taking in the way the man shuffled slightly to the side to hide somewhat behind Newt. “Cooperate. And after he has, we are going to continue with business as usual. He will be induced into a magically controlled state of sleep, loaded into a secure vessel, and we will then go about travel measures to ensure he’s delivered to London safely and quickly. We have a limited window of clearance to use a portkey while the wards have been modified. You are to stay with Tina. Follow our directions precisely. Understood?”

Newt nodded, squeezed Pretty’s shaking hand and prayed the man wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t ask about his master. He thanked every star in the night sky when he didn’t. 

“Lead the way,” he said, and with a final assessing look to them both, Theseus nodded and swept away — his aurors falling in around him. 

Gently, Newt tugged Pretty forward, and if he had thought the steps had been hard, this was so much worse. The halls felt like a shallow grave, barren of windows or air. He felt as though he could hardly breathe, and no matter how much confidence he tried to instill into the slant of his shoulders, he could feel the trembling in Pretty’s hand worsening. The echoes of their feet sounded like gunshots, sharp and rebounding inside of his skull. His skin felt thick, bloated, and cold, and he wondered if he’d make it. If he’d pass out before he ever had to witness the horror of allowing that man to touch Pretty one more time, even if to fix him. If the walk did not kill him first, that surely would. Even just the thought of it had his stomach rolling, his footing unsteady suddenly as though the marble tiles were instead the uneven wood of a ship’s deck. 

It stretched for eternity, like a hall from a nightmare that just kept extending. It ended too soon, sharp like the sudden fall of a guillotine's blade. And it stopped only once, just outside the ominous doors of the room where Newt had once almost perished. He hadn’t even thought of the gravity of returning to this place, drawn to his almost end once again. Perhaps the memory of his almost execution was at fault for the rising terror, for the bile in his throat. But he thought of the man just beyond those doors, surrounded by the ichor that had almost stolen Tina, and he knew there were things scarier than death.

Things that smiled with too many teeth, cold and clever behind the eyes. 

“Is everybody ready?” Theseus asked, his chin tilted over one shoulder to pin them with the keenness of a predator’s gaze. He was no longer Theseus Scamander. He was the Director of Magical Security for the Ministry of Magic, and it showed in his shoulders. In the quiet storm of his eyes. Calm on the surface, but hiding monsters deep below, ready to strike with teeth and claws. 

Around them, aurors quietly offered their readiness. Some of them Newt recognized. Others he didn’t know from Adam. But he felt some semblance of order re-enter his spine the moment Tina slid forward to stand beside him, a gentle but controlled look on her face as she grabbed his bicep and squeezed it once, then let him go. He took heart in the fact that she looked just as pale and hollow as he felt, no doubt even less eager to enter the chamber than he was.

“Newt?” Theseus asked, and Newt jerked to look at him. Skittish like the first time he had stolen a creature from a black market ring. He cursed himself.

“Y-yes,” he answered, and could not help but shrink before the looming door. 

“Then that settles it,” he said and turned from them, and Newt felt a soft sigh of relief spill from his lips, no longer under the harsh spotlight of his brother’s attention. “Open the doors.”

Two aurors on either side of Theseus stepped forward, wands drawn, as another two framing either door gripped its handles and hauled it open, revealing the chamber beyond. It was just as Newt remembered it. Cold, clinical. The air replaced with a disgustingly gentle sigh of death. The black sea that had almost claimed them both oozed and shifted, as though swept by some great storm. And at its center, Grindelwald sat in his chair as though it were a throne and not a death sentence. His wrists and ankles bound, leather and runes and chains all around him — but not the least bit uncomfortable. His head was already raised, his expression ready, as though he had been expecting them; and at that thought, Newt couldn’t help but shiver. 

Newt could still remember the last time he had seen Theseus. Newt had been visiting, dreadfully homesick and in need of his brother’s steadfast demeanor in the days that followed Sudan. It had been late, and he had found his brother stumbling home to his flat at an ungodly hour. He hadn’t thought a thing of it, until he saw the stumble in Theseus’ normally elegant gait. His breath whiskey strong, his gaze softened beneath the heady buzz of alcohol. He could remember still, the things Theseus had told him in a moment of frustrated weakness. No doubt he normally vented to his empty walls, but Newt had been there to hear it — so he did.

He heard about Grindelwald’s uncanny knack for foresight. He heard about the strange records from school, from his past.

He wondered if any of this was a surprise to the man. It could be an act. Surely the man knew confidence in the face of death would instill doubt in his captives, and if not at least enrage them. Newt knew that.

But looking at him then, grinning and waiting, Newt couldn’t help but feel it was him bound to a chair instead. 

He kept Pretty behind him as the aurors swept inside on the coattails of his brother, making room when Tina pulled him suddenly aside. He watched as four more aurors walked into the chamber carrying what looked suspiciously like a casket covered in ruins. They set it up so it was standing, and in the middle of the room even it did not look more imposing than the amused expression on Grindelwald’s face. 

“It’s almost over,” Tina promised as more aurors filed in, and Newt’s gut only felt heavier. She turned to Pretty and gripped his shoulder tight. “We’ll keep you safe.”

Once all of the aurors were in place, Tina ushered them forward. Newt turned just in time to see the doors swing shut behind him, and the hair on his arms stood straight as magic sealed the door shut, locking them all inside.

“Gellert Grindelwald, you have been called for a trial to be judged for your crimes both against the country of England and her citizens, as well as for crimes against humanity on a global scale. To this end you will be escorted under heavy supervision back to the Ministry of Magic. Is that understood?”

“Well hello to you, Director Scamander. Long time no see, not that you weren’t looking. How does it feel to be upstaged by your baby brother?”

Newt flinched, but Theseus did not falter. He merely shrugged.

“I don’t care who captured you. All I care about is that you were caught.”

“How noble of you,” Grindelwald crooned, and his words felt like ink on Newt’s skin. Slime he couldn’t shake. With a smile, the madman let his gaze trail from Theseus to Newt, only to still when he saw the man that stood behind him. “ _Pretty. Look at how you’ve grown._ ”

Quiet as he was, Newt had almost forgotten Pretty was behind him. He broadened his shoulders, so though he could hide the man from his attentions, but Pretty was not afraid of Grindelwald. He wriggled, torn. Clearly excited to see the man, but confused by all the body language in the room. Violent stances, wands drawn. He trembled and looks so small in his borrowed clothing, tail wagging small by his knees. 

“Master,” Pretty whispered back, his voice thready and confused. Because despite Newt’s warnings, the image of Grindelwald tied to that chair, surrounded by aurors armed to the teeth — it just wasn’t something Newt ever could have prepared the poor man for. His ears were drawn back, constantly flickering between perked and afraid. 

Newt saw a disgusted look cross Theseus’ face, and immediately it felt as though the situation was quickly disappearing from beneath their feet. Their footing bleeding away as though standing on sand.

“Come here,” Theseus said, and Pretty hesitated. Newt turned to reassure him. He stood so that he blocked Grindelwald from view and gently squeezed the former director by the back of the neck, soothing him.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’s going to be alright. Do as he says.”

Pretty nodded feebly, concerned and afraid, but his trust in Newt obviously won out. He watched him go and tried to ignore how dirty he suddenly felt. 

“Look at you, my gorgeous boy,” Grindelwald purred, and immediately his brother snapped a fierce ‘ _shut up_ ’, making Pretty flinch, big eyes wary as he came up beside Theseus.

When it came apparent that Theseus was going to take them both to the edge of the platform — closer to Grindelwald — Pretty froze. Newt saw it the moment all his training came rushing back to him. He tried to move to crouch, to crawl, but Theseus seized him by the elbow before he could and marched him toward the edge of the platform on stumbling feet. Newt opened his mouth to assuage Pretty’s fear, a trembling building in his very bones as his skin went two shades paler, but Grindelwald beat him to it — and what Newt saw in the madman’s eyes was more terrifying than anything else.

Understanding. 

From his chair, Grindelwald had eyes for no one but Pretty, holding his gaze as Theseus dragged him forward, nothing but reassurances on his tongue.

“It’s alright, Pretty, I know it isn’t your fault. I know they aren’t letting you be yourself. It’s alright, little love. We’ll set this right. You’re so brave, it’s alright. It’s almost over. You trust me, don’t you? Just hang tight,” Grindelwald crooned, and Newt shivered. In his words, there was nothing but kindness, but in his eyes there was only the unfathomable darkness of a shark’s gaze — hungry and blank, too cunning to be kind. Too cold to be loving. 

“Shut up,” Theseus snapped again, the knuckles of his hand going white around the place he held Pretty’s elbow. “You know why we’re here. Why I haven’t just thrown you in that vessel yet.”

Grindelwald smiled, his eyes finally flicking up to meet Theseus.

“I do.”

“Fix it,” Theseus said darkly, not an ounce of doubt in his tone as he kept Pretty at his side.

“And why would I do that?” Grindelwald asked.

“Because if you do, I’ll do you the favor of requesting that your jury sentences you to death.”

“The favor,” Grindelwald barked, genuine amusement blooming across his face as he laughed, chilling them in the otherwise silence of the execution chambers. “How generous of you.”

“I think you should really consider what I’m offering you, Grindelwald,” Theseus insisted. “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of your situation.”

Grindelwald quirked a silver brow.

“Do enlightenment me.”

“They’re not going to give you the benefit of a wizard’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking. They aren’t going to publicize it. They’re going to put you in Azkaban, Grindelwald,” he said, and let the words hang in the silence, so they might truly sink in. “They’re going to let those creatures suck the magic from your very bones until you’re nothing more than a Muggle yourself. They’re going to turn you into the very thing that you despise. They’re going to leave you in a cell to rot for the rest of your life, alone and useless. I’m offering you a wizard’s death. I’m offering you dignity. It’s more than you deserve.”

With his gaze on Grindelwald, Theseus missed the horror in Pretty’s face, the conflict. Missed the way he paled, the way his brown eyes grew round and terrified. Missed the moment he became a monster. 

But Newt didn’t. In his gut, something tightened and twisted, but it all felt out of control. He reached in his mind for a next step, for a way to step ahead of the growing situation, but fear dogged his thoughts into raging circles. All he could do was watch.

“I see,” Grindelwald said, his smile becoming somber as the words ceased their echoing. 

“What’s it going to be?” Theseus asked, jerking Pretty forward minutely, gesturing to his collar. “The collar or the Dementors?”

“You haven’t left me with much choice, have you?” Grindelwald asked, and Newt blinked. His gaze flew up as Theseus gestured to his men to form the bridge between the chair and the platform. Machinery whirred to life as the a thin walkway raised from beneath the despair of the black pit, sludge oozing from its surface until it finally finished forming beneath Grindelwald’s feet. 

Aurors, American and British alike, joined Theseus on either side. Wands rose to point at a single enemy as two aurors slipped past to begin the tedious process of freeing the man from his chair. Metal cuffs were replaced with heavy shackles, and binding leathers were enchanted anew. It was a long and awkward process, and if anything it merely intimidated Newt more. How could one man need so many safeguards?

And if he did need them, then how had Newt brought him to his knees so easily?

He thought back to the train station. To the way Grindelwald had not even attempted to counter the attack after being hit. He merely fell to his knees, arms writhing against the pressure of the Swooping Evil. Snarling. But not precisely upset or even bothered. More the mimicry of annoyance rather than the fear of being caught.

And then the moment he had been led past Newt. Eyes so sharp, so void of worry, so clinical. Amused.

_“Will we die, just a little?”_

Something cold gripped Newt’s heart.

He looked up just as the two aurors had taken Grindelwald beneath each elbow and had begun to march him toward Theseus — and Pretty. Pretty, who couldn’t seem to stand still. Tail between his legs, but its tip also wagging very slightly. Confused, anxious. Small by comparison to Theseus, so tall and proud. Holding his elbow in a vice, unrelenting. 

“Take it off,” Theseus snarled. 

Grindelwald offered him his hands, bound tight at each wrist.

“I’d love to, but I appear to be a little indisposed.”

“I’m not giving you your wand,” Theseus said, and Grindelwald rolled his eyes.

“I hardly need it. Just my hands will do.”

Theseus took a heavy step forward, eye to eye, and snarled quietly, “If you so much as twitch wrong my men will kill you. Is that understood?”

Grindelwald smiled charmingly.

“Perfectly.”

“Men,” Theseus announced as he waved his own wand over the trappings on Grindelwald’s hands, freeing him one by one until he had just enough leeway to use them. “Permission granted to fire on instinct.”

Grindelwald snorted, but before Theseus could say a thing about it, he pressed forward — hands raising to cradle Pretty’s jaw in his palms, thumbs soothing back his trembling.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry,” Pretty babbled weakly, eyes shooting to catch Grindelwald’s gaze, but unable to hold it before glancing back down at the ground.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” Grindelwald crooned. “Quiet, little love. I’ve got you.”

Theseus raised his wand pointedly, its tip aglow.

“Get on with it,” he demanded.

Grindelwald merely continued to smile, eyes seemingly only for Pretty as his hands slowly moved around back of his neck to the clasp he found there, fingers deft yet lazy. 

“Such a good boy,” he praised, and Pretty began to ease his shaking, eyes raising toward the source of that kind tone. Locking with mismatched eyes. Lips parting on a soft, needy suck of air as Grindelwald rubbed his thumbs along the skin outlining the collar. “Always such a good boy for me, perfect just as you are. Did you miss me?”

Pretty whined, eyes darting to Newt. Newt took a step forward, unwilling to intervene until the collar had been taken care of but every nerve in his body screaming for action, screaming that this was wrong.

“Percy,” he started, weakly, but Grindelwald cut him off.

“ _Percy_. Trying to change you. Forcing their ideas of the perfect citizen on both of us. We weren’t made for their world. Chaining me up, telling you to go by another name. How cruel they are,” he mused, something like a grin in his eyes when Pretty stilled.

“They did this to you?” He whispered, and Grindelwald made a big show out of cooing to him, as though only now realizing that Pretty hadn’t known.

“Stop talking,” Theseus said, stepping forward, but Grindelwald ignored him.

“Oh little love, you didn’t know? What did they tell you? That they were watching over you in my absence? They stole you from me, Pretty.”

“No,” Pretty whimpered. “They were… He was _kind.”_

“Pretty, it’s not like that—“ Newt tried, but Grindelwald just continued to softly talk over him, his words right in the former director’s ear even as Theseus moved forward to tear them apart.

“Kind. Am I not kind to you?” Pretty shook, and Grindelwald grinned. _“_ It was an act. To keep you calm while they figured out how to ‘fix’ you. They don’t love you like I love you, little love. No one will miss you when you’re gone. No one except for me.”

Before Theseus could snarl again, could reach them to pull them apart, there was a pop of metal slipping from leather, the little metal rod of the collar falling free of its hole. A hush of sliding leather through the golden square of the buckle, glinting softly, and all at once it was like a heavy buzzing none of them had noticed before had suddenly ceased. Making the room fall still and quiet in its passing. Grindelwald slowly withdrew the collar from around Graves’ neck, eyes on the angry red lines it left behind, and Pretty shivered. His hand rose to trace the bands about his neck, fingers shaking as he felt his skin there for the first time in months. 

They waited. For a flash of a light, a great reveal. Moments passed.

It didn’t come.

Slowly, eyes big and heavy and sad, Pretty looked up at them all. Graves had not returned. He flinched when Theseus surged forward, separating Grindelwald from Pretty, his wand at the madman’s throat.

“Where is he? What have you done?”

Grindelwald smiled with all his teeth.

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to come back to a world of “friends” and “family” that didn’t even notice he was missing,” Grindelwald offered. “Or perhaps its simply too late.”

The magic atop Theseus’ wand grew brighter, and he growled like thunder.

“Wrong answer.”

Several things then happened all at once. Newt rushed forward, eyes caught on the desperate tremble of Pretty’s body. Tina called for him, distracting one or two Aurors from their duty. A turncoat rose from their midst, a friendly wand changing aim to blast Theseus across his shoulder — sending him flying into the far wall with a silencing crack, only to fall limp just shy of the black abyss, hand dangling over the precipice. Body slowly slipping further and further over its edge. Grindelwald took an unhurried step forward as action bloomed around him. Two Aurors turned on their fellows, blasting man and woman alike across the room at large. A Frye was flung into the pit, eyes panicked and then glassy as he sunk into its grasp. Another into the vessel, it’s lid snapping closed behind him with an innocent little click.

Newt urged himself forward, racing toward Pretty, his gut heavy as he saw Grindelwald had yet to drop the collar. Hands still free, magic still uninhibited. 

“Pretty,” he shouted, breath caught as the man turned to stare at him with wide, unsure eyes. A hand drew him in close, arms winding around him, and over Pretty’s shoulder Grindelwald smiled at Newt.

“Portus,” he said, and the collar in his hands glowed blue.

An Auror dragged Theseus from the edge, urging him awake. Ginger lashes fluttered, then lolled toward the chaos in the room. Theseus watched as Newt lunged forward with a desperate cry, fingers tangling into a loose shirt, and there was a deafening crack and they were gone as though they had never been.

Theseus blinked slowly, a hush of breath shaking loose from his mouth, before it finally sunk in. Grindelwald was gone, _he had planned this_ , and he had taken his best friend and his brother with him.

And Theseus had let him.

“No,” he gasped, unheeding of the stray shots blazing between the aurors and the turncoats, ripping up chunks of concrete and tile and wall. He scrabbled to his feet, yanking his arm from the auror who had helped him, and stumbled forward — blood drawing from his veins in a great, cold gush. “ _No._ ”

Another auror was thrown into the pit, Shaw barely standing as he held the gushing wound in his side and still attempted to fight. The silence of his shell-shock slowly faded, and in a rising roar, sound began to reach him once more. Tina’s angry yells. The scrambling voices of his men. The outrage of the American. The traitors…

His blood pumped thickly in his ears. His vision went red and dark and cold. He sucked in a breath past bared teeth and let the sharp tingling of his flesh rush into his wand as he uttered his first spell.

Fire hit the traitor straight in the chest, sending him to the far wall above the pit and leaving a spider web of cracks in the concrete from the impact. He began to fall with a cry, only to be caught an inch from the ink below and thrown into the ceiling again, and again, and again. Blood dribbled from his nose and between his teeth in a throaty, terrified wheeze before finally Theseus dropped him, letting the abyss consume him for itself.

The room, which had gone still at the vicious display, gaped at him. All except for the other traitor, who quickly flew into motion — terrified he would be next. Theseus soundless jabbed his wand at him, quick and sharp and merciless, and brought him to his knees with the sickening crack of breaking bones, both knees shattered. The turncoat sobbed, his merciless and heady smirk long gone as Theseus strode forward to crowd him.

“Th-Theseus, please,” he stuttered, a sigh of relief parting his lips when Theseus’ wand jetted back up into his sleeve only to cry out when instead the man struck him with his fist, breaking his nose, sending him to the floor. Theseus followed him down, straddling him, and struck him again.

The room quiet but for the shattered sound of panicked breathing and the meaty greeting of knuckles and flesh. 

“Director Scamander,” Tina finally said as the traitor’s eyes began to loll in his head, body limp and shaking with each impact. “Director. _Theseus!”_

He stopped, bloodied fist still raised, eyes cold and alien as he stared at her.

“Stop,” she said, breathless and wide eyed, “You’re… you’re _killing_ him.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked, and he felt it the moment his men froze, shocked. A few were nodding. A few remembered the friends who had been thrown into the abyss. Who had been stolen from them. Others stared, pale and scared by the creature that had risen in Theseus’ flesh and taken their leader’s place. 

Tina pursed her lips and stepped forward.

“I want him dead just as much as you do, but that isn’t ours to decide,” she said, and he could hear Graves in her words — calm and steadfast and familiar. Gone. He swallowed thickly. “Plus, he’s… he’s the only link we have now. Isn’t he?”

All at once, his rage bled from him like a balloon collapsing. He surged to his feet, ignoring the sharp slap of the unconscious man’s body dropping to the floor, and began to pace. Unheeding of the eyes that watched him. Unhearing of the sound of boots racing toward the door. Unseeing.

His fingers clawed into his hair, his mind raced as it repeated the site of Newt’s face before he disappeared — determined yet terrified — and he began to shake. The weight of his failure bent him double, and as the doors finally slammed open, he opened his mouth like a floodgate that could contain the rising waters no longer.

He screamed, and Tina had never heard anything like it. 

None of them had.

 

* * *

 

The portkey was not kind. It tore at him, jerking him this way and that, and were it not for the stranglehold he had on Pretty’s shirt, he’d surely have been lost. He heard tearing, and for a terrifying moment that held him suspended in time, he feared the shirt might rip entirely and leave him to the whims of whatever inbetween magic existed between the two destinations of a portkey. 

His joints ached. His skin felt afire. All surely residual from not touching the actual portkey upon transport. He felt as though he were being pulled apart at the seams, and all he could think was that wherever they were going, it must be far away, for he had never endured a magical act of transportation for as long as this. 

With a crack like ice shifting, it was done. Newt fell to his knees with a shout, held up by only one pale, quivering hand as the other continued to cling to his charge. His stomach twisted, and with a disturbing sound, he retched the contents of his meager lunch. It seeped into his knees, into his trousers, and somewhere above him someone made a disgusted noise. 

“Lovely,” Grindelwald crooned maliciously, looking down his nose at the shivering wreck of the man that had managed to follow them. “Uninvited _and_ weak.”

Newt brushed at the open gasp of his mouth, sleeve smeared with sick, and slowly looked up at the inevitable sight that awaited him. Grindelwald, towering over him. One hand fastened around Pretty’s wrist, the other around his collar which was smoldering lightly — it’s tags slowly fading from molten red to regular, innocent gold. 

Newt didn’t know what disturbed him more. The interested, excited cruelty growing in Grindelwald’s eyes or the shaking that began to double in Pretty’s limbs at the sight of him. Scared, Newt realized, not for himself — _but for Newt._

It shouldn’t have been possible. Even with his hands free and some semblance of magic returned to him, the bindings of leather and runes should have stopped Grindelwald from casting magic as complex as creating a portkey. The dark wizard must have seen the question in his eyes, in the way his gaze lingered over the collar.

“Our dear Pretty here has been doing nothing but funneling excess magic into this collar for months. Some of it had been used for his final transformation, but what has accumulated since was enough.”

Newt tried to stumble to his feet, only to collapse awkwardly to the ground, too disoriented from his impromptu portkey ride-along to stand. Wobbly-kneed like a newborn colt, sweating and feverish and weak. When Grindelwald took a step forward, he then tried to whip out his wand — but no sooner was it out and in the open was it suddenly in Grindelwald’s grasp. He turned it this way and that, as though considering it, before sniffing in disdain and squirreling it away into his coat. 

“How is it,” Grindelwald said, slowly falling to one knee so he might snatch Newt up by the chin and force his gaze upon him. Annoyed, if a little intrigued, by the way Newt insisted on staring at his cheek or the corner of his brow. “That _you_ were able to fell _me_? Have you considered that, Mr. Scamander? Have you wondered?”

Newt clenched his jaw.

“You’re cocky,” Newt said bluntly.

“No, no, no,” Grindelwald sang, his lips splitting into a knowing smile. “A man that can see the future isn’t cocky. He’s enlightened. Try again.”

Newt snorted, then cringed — his brother suddenly howling in his ear, telling him not to instigate a madman. He bit his tongue and waited, only to try and jerk back when a thumb rose and swept across his pursed lower lip. Stopped by the hand that had swept in behind his head and held him still. He pursed his lips tighter, and that only appeared to amuse Grindelwald further.

“You were such a perfect pawn in my merry game, Mr. Scamander. I couldn’t have planned it better even if I had tried. How does the saying go…? Surely you’ll know this one, Magizoologist as you are. How do you catch a Demiguise?”

Newt stilled, his hazel eyes growing large as finally he lifted them to catch Grindelwald’s mismatched stare. 

“You don’t,” he whispered, as though unable to help himself. “They have to want to be seen.”

Grindelwald smiled and slapped his cheek lightly, caressing him like one might caress a dog. 

“Good boy.”


	13. Shifting Tides

Grindelwald's hands moved slowly as he plucked each button, pulled each zipper and inevitably revealed every inch of Pretty's skin that Scamander had seen fit to hide away. With every article of clothing removed more of his precious boy was revealed and Grindelwald felt the tension leave his skin the more he saw of Pretty’s. When finally his pet was naked, lying flat on the bed in the undone wrappings of his clothing like a butterfly pinned out for worship, Grindelwald smiled.

“There you are, little love. Look how beautiful you’ve become. Oh how I missed you,” he purred. He traced the quivering sigh of Pretty’s mouth, the blush of his cheeks. Below him, Pretty stayed perfectly still for him, but even so he seemed on edge. More focused than his darling pet usually was. 

The corner of Grindelwald’s lips twitched and beneath, Pretty flinched.

“You’re worried about that brat that lied to you.”

“Ma— _Newt_ ,” Pretty said, only to jump when Grindelwald slammed a hand down beside his head and hovered over him, head heavy where it hung down between his shoulders.

“Did you so quickly replace me?” He rasped and furiously Pretty shook his head, eyes wet.

“He said you were friends,” Pretty gasped. “He said you told him to protect me. He said—“

Grindelwald sucked in a slow breath.

With gentle hands, eyes suddenly soft again, he cradled Pretty’s shaking cheeks and hushed him. He brushed the tears from beneath his eyes, searching, and said, “You were lied to. I would never leave you with someone so inadequate. Someone who so miserably didn’t understand you. Oh little love, did you think I would ever leave you?”

Warmth bloomed in Pretty’s eyes, that single cord forever taut within him struck, and Grindelwald smiled as the man pressed his face into the cup of his hands and let out a shuddering, relieved gasp.

“I thought you left me,” Pretty whispered.

Grindelwald soothed him with his hands, with his lips, with his touch, and whispered back, “I’ll never leave you, Pretty-darling. I love you. That will never change. You’re still mine, aren’t you? Do you still love me?”

Pretty pressed up into him, eager to be touched, to return to normalcy where he knew the rules and the expectations and the bars. Grindelwald searched for the cracks that clumsy magizoologist surely left, but beneath him he saw nothing but soft eyes, desperate and eager. His Pretty.

“Yours, yours, yours,” Pretty babbled, hands tight were they held onto the dark wizard's forearms.

Grindelwald smiled and leaned down to kiss his worried stammering from his lips.

“Then show me, won’t you? Prove to me — _to him_ — that you’re mine.”

Pretty stilled, his trembling returning as slowly Grindelwald rose and stepped away from the bed with a snap to reveal a man chained to the wall opposite the bed — familiar and unconscious. Pretty sat up and quickly hunched in on himself. The dark wizard took in his every reaction. The shivering of his skin; like the last leaf of fall. The way his big brown eyes darted to Grindelwald for guidance. The way he worried his lip, fingers trembling on his thighs. The way his tail tucked tight to him.

“Will you do that for me? Will you be a good boy?”

“Good boy,” Pretty whispered, eyes lost on Newt before him; too distant and too keen for Grindelwald’s taste. Grindelwald snapped his fingers again and relished the way Pretty’s back went suddenly ramrod straight, pulled from his thoughts by the sensation of lubricant suddenly rushing from his anus.

“Well?”

Pretty sucked in a quick breath as the dots connected and quickly turned to assume the position on the bed, just the way Grindelwald preferred for him to present. Ass up, face down, cock soft between his thighs — for now.

The dark wizard grinned.

“Good boy.”

* * *

Newt woke to hands in his hair, soft and cursory. Nothing altogether out of the ordinary, but annoying nonetheless. He tried to be rather diligent about waking early at the same hour every day so that the creatures wouldn’t have to wait on him, but to be woken earlier than expected was rather peeving.

He frowned and murmured a soft, “Not now, Dougal,” and went to bat the little creature’s hands away only for his own hand to halt with a bone chilling jangle, caught fast by the chains that held his wrists tight to the wall above him.

Someone chuckled, and like a pin breaking some unfathomable barrier, sound crashed suddenly upon him. Specifically a soft, desperate keening; a repeated squelch; and the angry groaning of old mattress springs.

Before he could talk himself out of it — still too disoriented to connect the dots — Newt opened his eyes.

He was on the floor, his back to a wall and his feet splayed out inelegantly in front of him. His neck ached horribly from the angle, as well as his lower back and his shoulders from the way his hands had been chained high above him. Between the lack of circulation and the persistent thrum of something pulling the magic from his veins, he couldn’t tell what specifically was making his hands numb — medical or magical means. He tried to move his fingers, to flex his hands, to summon magic; but the numbness just increased and suddenly, his hands felt fat and useless and frozen.

He moaned, his lashes fluttered, and from somewhere in the room another moan answered his. Newt stilled.

Slowly, fingers came to clutch his jaw and beneath his chin, and Newt jerked. With sharp, panicked breaths, he tried to pull away — brain fogged and useless and scrambling — but it was like his jaw had been caught in a vice, cruel and unforgiving.

His eyes slid to his side, to the owner of that hand, to the man he hadn’t noticed, and in an icy rush, he froze. His eyes widened as slow as the memories that rushed over him. 

Grindelwald was kneeling beside him. His head was tilted as he regarded him, looking to all the world like some great bird of prey, vicious and overly curious. He purred and when Newt tried to draw away again, he merely clucked his tongue and held his jaw tighter until Newt was sure the man would leave bruises.

“Took you long enough. Be a good boy now,” Grindelwald crooned, but beneath the pleasantness of his tone was nothing but contempt. “And watch the show he’s putting on so generously for you.”

With a nasty tug, his head was jerked upright and forward, and his gaze was forced ahead. Although nothing further touched him, Newt gasped as though he had been punched in the stomach, all air fleeing from his lungs as surely as he wished he could flee from his chains.

The whimpering, the wet squelching, the whining springs — all of it was coming from the bed. The bed where Pretty knelt on all fours, spine bowed in a brilliant and overwhelmed arc, naked as though his stay with Newt had never happened. His mouth was open on a desperate, keening note as he writhed against an unseen force that — judging by his struggles — appeared to keep his hands and knees locked solidly in place. His skin was glossy, shivering constantly like a horse trying to shoo flies, and rosy wherever a blush had risen to pinken his flesh. His ass was cherry red in places, palm prints bright and livid, and his tail was tucked tight around his thigh, his ears flickering back, then forth, then back again; conflicted. To top it all off, there was a dildo of a heart stilling size enchanted and hovering at his entrance, nestled tight and dividing between the rosy swell of Pretty’s cheeks. It was thrusting at an unforgiving pace, and with his knees spread as wide as they were, Newt could see the tautness of Pretty’s rim as his body struggled to accommodate the intrusion. Newt could only watch as it slid wetly in and out, tearing sounds from the poor thing’s throat as gorgeous as his namesake.

And if his moaning and drooling was anything to go by, the heavy length was aimed brutally at his prostate, meticulous in its every stroke and ruthless in its attention. 

“Pretty,” Newt whispered, too shocked to refrain from speaking. Pleading brown eyes met his, and like glass shattering, Newt broke free of his reverie. Desperate — for freedom or for _release_ , he didn’t know — but desperate all the same, those eyes. Newt threw himself against the chains, only to choke sharply when Grindelwald’s grip on his jaw shifted immediately to his throat and shoved him effortlessly back against the wall.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he purred, “No touching. Only good boys get to touch.”

“You b-bast-ah!” His curse cut out into a gurgle, a livid red spread angrily across the paleness of his cheeks, and above him, Grindelwald smiled — something hungry and alive in his eyes, manic and high. 

“Took a good, _long_ look, Mr. Scamander, and remember this next time you think to try and take what is mine,” Grindelwald said into his ear, low enough that Pretty might not hear beneath the crescendo of his own dubious pleasure. “Try all you want to unmake him, but this is what he is at the end of the day. Soft, pliant — in need of a steady hand.”

Newt opened his mouth to retort, but the hand on his throat merely tightened and for a moment, the world began to grow black and hazy around the edges of his vision. His wrists jerked to grab Grindelwald’s hands, to pull himself free, to escape, but all he was rewarded with was the gentle chiming of chains against cold stone and his own panicked wheezing.

With one last squeeze, Grindelwald let go and rolled back onto his haunches. 

“He is not a plaything,” Newt wheezed, the confidence of his voice broken by the clenching of Grindelwald’s fingers, lost beneath the steady bloom of bruises rising to wreath his throat. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Grindelwald said, and Newt stilled, eyes wide, utterly confused. “You might not believe me when I say it, but I am the first person in this man’s life who has seen him for what he is. Not a pawn, not a token, not a mask or a step.”

“He was your fucking contingency plan! You told me so yourself!” Newt snarled, only to flinch when from the bed, Pretty whined — lost and worried and overwhelmed.

“He was always my contingency plan; it’s not my fault you and your pathetic lot fell apart the moment your realized the gravity of your misgivings towards this man. But everything I have done for him, I have done _for him_. Just as I intend to do for you.”

Newt kicked out with his heels, chains rasping again, but Grindelwald quickly stood before anything could connect and gracefully stepped out of range with a chuckle and a far too intelligent look. Full of himself, as though sure no one would ever keep up. 

“You remind me of him, you know,” Grindelwald purred as slowly he made his way back to Pretty, hands gentle and awed as he stroked the shivering line of his spine and the shuddering of his flanks. “So intent to do right by a world that wouldn’t hesitate to trip you. That _has_ tripped you. You, for example, just want a world where you can be yourself — where your _creatures_ can be themselves. They didn’t ask for the strange morality of witches and wizards that somehow decided that it is some grave sin against humanity at large to be powerful. The wampus does not understand why it has any less right to exist than say a tiger, just because it is not _normal._ You both fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. And yet, no one is here to fight for you.”

“They’re coming,” Newt said, but the words were weak and thready, and his lips pursed into a thin line at the sound of them.

Grindelwald raised one slender white brow and made a show of looking around the room.

“Any day now, right? That’s what he told me too, this precious man,” Grindelwald said, leaning down to caress Pretty’s jaw and force him to look up, mouth open, eyes watery. “And then months passed and when finally he was found, it wasn’t because they had noticed he was gone. Not a particularly observant lot, those aurors. Ministry, MACUSA or otherwise.”

“You’re a fool if you think they aren’t trying.”

“Oh I know they’re trying. But I gave them every clue they needed to find this place, just as I did when first I stole away their director’s pretty life. They didn’t come then. I’ll be pleasantly surprised if they come now.”

Beneath the gentle petting of his thumb, Pretty keened into his fingers, and even from where Newt sat he could see the way the man trembled — so close.

“Go ahead, darling,” Grindelwald crooned. “It’s alright.”

With a wet, desperate sob, Pretty came. White dribbled across the sheets in a few spurting globs, and when his aftershocks were done, he hung his head heavy in the cradle of Grindelwald’s hand; eyes half lidded and spent. With a snap, the dildo disappeared, leaving him to wink barrenly in the air, lube tracing the division of his ass down to the swollen hang of his balls.

“Better?”

Pretty moaned.

“Whatever you think you did to help him, he didn’t ask for this.”

Grindelwald let the sentence hang in the air, lashes low and dangerous as finally he turned to regard the chained up Scamander on his floor. Although his touch reminded kind, all niceties bled away from his eyes.

“You understand so little,” Grindelwald said softly, words that Newt had to strain to catch, before finally he looked back to Pretty — some hint of kindness restored at the openness of that face, those eyes. “It seems Mr. Scamander needs another lesson. Are you ready, little love?”

Pretty made a confused little moan as slowly his dick, which had since softened from his orgasm, slowly began to rise again until it was hard and heavy and throbbing against his belly once more. 

“There’s a good boy,” Grindelwald crooned as he moved onto the bed, twisting Pretty as he did so that the man’s back was to his still clothed front, ass pert in the cradle of his lap as the dark wizard deftly unzipped his pants and retrieved his dick from the confines of his trousers. Newt didn’t see much of it until Grindelwald kissed Pretty’s shoulder and urged him to rise, hole already open from his prior fucking, and easily slipped inside — his dick disappearing into the director.

Pretty tossed back his head and moaned, eyes closed, one ear caught askance in the jut of Grindelwald’s neck, the other high and perked. The dark wizard took his time exploring Pretty then, reacquainting himself with his lost pet as he traced the rosy nubs of his nipples and the rungs of each of his ribs. His other hand tracing the skin around the base of the man’s throbbing dick, teasing but never properly grabbing hold, making Pretty squirm and whine, lashes wet.

The way he had positioned them, Newt had no way of missing any moment of it lest he closed his eyes. He did so, once, only for his breathing to shorten and die, the hand returned around his throat, and with a curse he forced himself to watch. 

“You call me a monster, Mr. Scamander, but you cannot tell me you did not think to do this yourself. That you didn’t want him like this, soft and keening on your dick. You’re hard, aren’t you?” And with a flush, Newt bit his lip. Because sure enough, his trousers were beginning to become painfully tight. He was grateful, if for a moment, that his hands were locked above him if only because it simplified one thing in his life — he no longer had to worry about touching himself or what that would mean.

But he wanted to.

“Is it because you wish you were me?” Grindelwald asked as he ground his dick into Pretty, hands tight on his pale hips as he pulled the man tight across his lap, sealing them together. “Or perhaps because you wish you were _him_?”

Newt sucked in a breath and bared his teeth. He opened his mouth — to yell, to support Pretty, to do anything but be a silent onlooker — but as though it had never been, his voice was suddenly gone. On Pretty’s hip, Grindelwald’s fingers shimmered. His voice had been silenced.

“Let me do you a favor and give you an excuse to just enjoy the show, pet. There’ll be plenty of time to curse me later.”

Content that Newt was focused on the show, Grindelwald adjusted his stance so he might thrust up into that clenching heat, hands guiding Pretty into a bouncing tempo on his dick as finally they truly began to fuck. Wet noises filled the room and for a moment, Newt was sure he felt sick — if not from the sight of Pretty being debauched by the man that had mentally molded him into something he was not, then by the fact that deep in his gut, he could not help but feel aroused by the sight. 

Just a bodily reaction; just the human body reacting to stimuli and pheromones and any number of normal, acceptable biological things — but still he could not help but hate himself knowing that somewhere in there, Director Graves was still fighting for his freedom, caught behind a cage of soft brown eyes and roiling pleasure.

Grindelwald stared at him from over Pretty’s shoulder, his lips a long and knowing curve over the director’s rosy flesh. His eyes twinkled, held fast on where Newt was bound to the wall as his hand slowly crept up to cradle the elegant stretch of Pretty’s barren throat. The hand was loose, but even from where Newt sat, he could see it was tight enough for Pretty’s Adam’s apple to struggle to bob around it.

The skin was lighter where the collar once had hung, pale and steadily pinning where Grindelwald brushed a thumb atop it — keenly ware of its absence. 

“What do you think, Pretty-darling?” Grindelwald purred into the man’s ear, lips flush against his cheek and jaw like a parody of a kiss. “Wouldn’t he look lovely with a collar?”

Pretty didn’t get a chance to answer, each attempt lost on a breathless gasp and rolling eyes as Grindelwald thrust up into him, making him bounce and dance in his lap, ears flopping.

“Show him what he has to look forward to, little love. Show him how much you adore me. How grateful you are.”

Pretty opened his eyes, set on Newt, and his bottom lip quivered. Newt could see his confliction; the way his hips couldn’t stop chasing that carnal pleasure. He wondered if Pretty would still feel conflicted if Newt were not here to witness it, if in some way Newt were an anchor to a memory of what should be — a light piercing the veil of Grindelwald’s lies.

And for a moment, Newt felt guilty that he stole that ignorance from him.

“I’m sorry,” Newt mouthed, and could only fall slack into his chains — dick wilting — when Pretty turned his head away with wet lashes. 

The red head thrust his head back into the brick and forced himself to watch as Grindelwald exposed the carnal hell Pretty had been raised in during those months where Graves had been missing. He forced himself to witness every sigh pulled from his throat, every tremble of his thighs, every tweaking of his nipples. Every keen, every begging stammer, every thrust; Newt absorbed it all.

He watched and he prayed Theseus were as clever as he always idolized him to be. He watched and he hoped his Pretty, _his Percy_ wasn’t gone. He prayed and he watched and he bade his time. 

With a cry, Pretty came — “Thank you” soft and heady on his lips — and Newt let his eyes rise to the mismatched pair that were fastened on him all along. 

“Say thank you to Mr. Scamander, little love,” Grindelwald purred into Pretty’s ear, a kiss onto its shell. “For being such a lovely audience.”

Pretty shivered, eyes averted, weak like in the days where Newt first met him, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“That’s a dear,” Grindelwald said, eyes back on Newt, and grinned. “And soon, perhaps you won’t have to do these little shows alone, hmm? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

No one answered.

* * *

The morgue was, if possible, more chilling to Theseus than the American’s strange idea of a “humane” execution chamber. It was more sterile, more bland, more disconcerting. Even through the soles of his shoes he was certain he could feel the cold creeping up into his bones. It was the kind of cold that haunted the soul, like the looks on the faces of the men they had pulled out from the black goo. 

Three men total had fallen into the abyss. Three. Two friends, one traitor; all three of them smiling as though they had died in bliss. Their hands were curled tight beneath their chins, each body fetal in its positioning, each staring blankly ahead in rapture and awe. This was what Tina and Newt had escaped — death masked by rictus smiles, the illusion of paradise.

"The turncoat has been identified as Ms. Scott, an auror of MACUSA's employ," Jenkins, MACUSA's mortician, said softly, eyes lost on the sight of her on the table; seemingly innocent in death. "Another... another failure. Perhaps we have grown too large if we can no longer maintain the sanctity of our own people. One traitor for MACUSA, one for the Ministry. Grindelwald really outdid himself."

"Humans are fickle, it doesn't matter how many of us there are. In any group one is always liable to turn against the rest. It's how the Muggle's savior died, isn't it? Even he could not avoid it... Didn't even fight it. Because betrayal is inevitable. Even in the best of us." Theseus murmured blankly, not quite feeling the words himself. Sentences repeated from other mouths, hollow on every iteration. He thought of the letters he exchanged with a stranger wearing his friend's face. He thought of Cross, a man he had shared drinks with, and the crunch of his nose beneath his knuckles. How good it felt. "We can't predict the future. We can only react. That is where we failed. That is how we failed them."

His hands traced the outline of a foot of one of the dead aurors, fingers trembling a hair's breadth from the fabric that covered them.

“For what it’s worth,” Jenkins, MACUSA’s mortician, said, “It’s a pleasant death.”

“Death is not pleasant,” Theseus rasped, head bowed between his shoulders where he braced himself atop NAME’s table, “Don’t let their smiles fool you.” 

The comment seemed to unsettle the man, because the moment the words bled between them the wiry little man backed away, eyes comically large behind spectacles that already made him huge. 

He had failed them in every way that counted. They were dead, and even dead Theseus had no fruits to bare in honor of their sacrifice. His brother and his friend: kidnapped. Graves was still missing, if he was even there at all. And Grindelwald was free.

Cold bled into his lungs, but when he exhaled, it did not leave.

“Boss.”

He didn’t need to turn to know it was his right hand standing in the doorway behind him. He knew he would come. He knew the Ministry would send him.

“Can we have the room, doctor?” Theseus asked, head still bowed beneath the halo of the mortician’s spotlight. 

With an apologetic stammer, Jenkins quickly fled the room — more than happy to leave the aura of death Theseus single handedly was filling the room with. He passed Shaw with barely another word, but Theseus could not find it within himself to care that he had frightened him.

Shaw frowned and slowly stepped inside.

“Boss,” he said when Theseus did not move.

He took a deep breath and slowly straightened.

“They’ve issued an order for my arrest,” he said, and in the words there was no question, only certainty.

“Not your arrest, no. Nothing so official… But basically.”

Theseus nodded, then slowly turned to face his friend. Shaw looked exhausted. Healed it would seem, at least, from the fight in the execution chambers, but sore nonetheless. Even healed though, he looked drawn, frayed at the edges. They all did. Haunted men leading haunted lives, following the orders of a bunch of safe leaders at their tables, reading from their papers and their reports.

Theseus extended his wrists and Shaw grimaced.

“They can’t afford to lose us both,” Theseus said. “Do it. It needs to be done.”

“No one could have known that would happen, boss.”

“Grindelwald knew. I should have known. It’s my job to know better.”

“You’re human.”

“And now two good men are dead, who knows if there are more traitors, and a madman is out of prison. My humanity is a liability, Shaw. They’re right to order my arrest.”

Shaw took a step back, and at those words seemed to suddenly fill with some unseen purpose. Theseus blinked as his second in command merely shoved his hands pointedly into his pockets and shook his head.

“Look, I’m not trying to tell you it’s okay. Cause it’s not. Abbott and Kingsley are dead. No fixing that. But they died for a cause: catching Gellert Grindelwald. No one knows that man like you do, boss. And if he tricked _you_ , that means the rest of us might as well bugger off while we’re ahead. That bastard ain’t getting back in chains without you. Just not happening. And the Theseus I know wouldn’t rest until he’s behind bars or dead. But… I can’t ignore a direct order, either.”

Theseus remained quiet, eyes narrowed as he waited.

“I’ve got to step into your shoes, what with you wanted for questioning. That means I’ve got a few priorities that come before dragging you home. Frye, for example, needs to be seen by a doctor and you know how he gets. He’s gonna make me drag him kicking and screaming. Way I see it, I won’t have time to hunt you down and bring you home until at least morning. Now I’m gonna do my due diligence, tell you to stay put and what not. But I don’t think anyone would blink a lash if, in the pressure of my new duties and the loss of our friends, I lost track of a certain someone.”

“Shaw, if they find out—“

He shrugged.

“The way I see it, we have a duty. To our country,” he said, then trailed off softly as his eyes fell onto the body behind Theseus, “To the people we lost… We came here to bring that fucker home. If that means losing my job, so be it. I’ll rest better at night knowing I did everything I could. But you gotta go. Now. Not… not all the boys are on board.”

“They know?”

“They suspect.”

Theseus didn’t bother to try and argue further. Without another word, he tugged his coat on tighter and crossed the space between them. At the door, he paused to clasp one hand on his friend’s shoulder, lips drawn tight.

“I’m sorry.”

_That this fell on you. That you had to make this choice, this risk._

“Don’t be,” Shaw said. “Just make it count.”

Theseus’ hand left his shoulder and all at once, silence fell over them like a storm — heavy and pounding. Shaw sucked in a breath, ready to turn and urge the other man to fucking move already, but when he did Theseus was already gone as though he had never been there at all.

Shaw shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and shook his head, his smile small and tired and beaten. With a sigh, he turned to face the men curled up on the tables.

He reached for something poignant to say. An apology, a vow.

But in death, words were meaningless — they could neither hear nor feel their weight. So he bit his tongue and stood in the shadow of their bodies, and wondered if he could bare the weight of a director’s title, if this is what went hand in hand with glory.

Death, after all, followed men like scavengers; and some fed it better than most. 

“Good luck, boss,” he murmured into the room. 

He wondered if Death could hear him.

* * *

The cold trailed after him, thick in his lungs as he quickly made his way down the steps of the Woolworth Building’s front entrance. Snow fell in slow, heavy drifts; lazy, as though there were no immediacy in this world, no sense of urgency. Theseus shoved his hands into his pockets and exhaled an angry plume, unsure of where precisely to start but knowing he couldn’t stay at MACUSA — nor could he return to his hotel. He had his wand, the clothes on his back.

It’d have to be enough.

He was just beginning to think of where to start, where first to go, when he heard the doors to the Woolworth Building slam suspiciously open.

“Scamander!” A voice boomed, a runt from his task force; young and ambitious. Theseus tucked his chin down and kept moving, intent on getting to the sidewalk and the crowd of muggles rushing to and fro. “Scamander, stop!”

He was nearly to it when a hand wound into the crooks of his elbows on either side, two familiar bobs suddenly in his peripherals. Startled, he made to pull away, but stopped when he felt both Tina and Queenie hold him just the slightest bit tighter. 

“Goldstein…s?” Theseus babbled, the bruised skin beneath his eyes suddenly feeling more tender as he realized how tired he must be to let them get the drop on him. To his right, Queenie smiled pleasantly, curls bobbing with her every bouncy step.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she chimed with a wink. “Just act natural. We ladies know how to escape a man’s attention.”

“Honestly, Queenie,” Tina sighed, her expression altogether more serious as she scanned the crowd around them for more Aurors — Ministry or otherwise. Behind them he could hear an auror barking orders to him over the crowd, but it was obvious the sheer crowd of muggles had him too hesitant to act in any significant measure. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Theseus say the young Auror try to stumble his way through the avalanche of people climbing and descending MACUSA’s steps, snarling at anyone who so much as brushed his shoulder but unable to pierce the crowd.

“This way,” Tina said and jerked on Theseus’ arm, dragging the three of them off through the crowd of New Yorkers and past the allies Theseus knew to be regular disapparition points. He opened his mouth to question the decision, only to see an Auror here and there, seemingly innocent but too keen in their scanning to be just milling about.

“Did Shaw send you?” Theseus asked.

“Shaw? No. Just — hang tight until we’re out of this mess and I’ll answer whatever questions you got, okay?”

It was strange, he realized, to be pulled along on the whims of a person who had a plan he wasn’t privy to. Surreal and uncomfortable. But he let himself be pulled along all the same as the Goldstein sisters dragged him through several blocks of the big apple. Just when he was about to question how far they intended to go, the girls quickly pulled him into an alley and disapparated with him still in hand without much more warning than a, “Here we are.”

His bones ached from the suddenness, his stomach weak and fluttery and empty. He covered his mouth as bile rose in his throat only to grimace at the roughness of his whiskers, overgrown and scratchy. Instinctively, his hand went for the handle of his wand as he took in his surroundings. Both Queenie and Tina had released him, leaving him to reel in the middle of a tidy, immaculate living room. 

Behind him, a fire crackled merrily. To either side of him sat a plush, elegant couch and directly ahead, a gorgeous wing backed arm chair, pointed at the fire. The walls were lined with shelves of books and items of various value. Paintings, landscape and portrait alike, hung on the walls. And behind the chair, hands folded elegantly atop it, stood the Madam President — as regal as her portrait that hung behind her. She stood so confidently in fact, Theseus almost missed the swollen, puffy skin of the knuckles of her right hand — hastily healed, but not quite whole.

“At ease, Mr. Scamander. I assure you, you’re safe here.”

Theseus stilled.

“Picquery,” he said, the name hushed beneath the weight of his shock as beside him on either side, the Goldsteins exchanged wry looks. 

“I assume you weren’t followed?”

Theseus opened his mouth only to realize he was not the person she was talking to.

“I’m reasonable confident we were not, Madam President,” Tina responded.

“What’s going on here?” Theseus asked.

“I was sent a message from the Ministry of Magic just a mere half hour ago, Mr. Scamander. A request that you be detained for questioning. Evidently your superiors did not have faith in your men to follow orders.”

“Ah,” Theseus said. “Then you’re… detaining me here?”

Picquery tilted her head playfully, one elegant brow rising.

“I won’t believe for one second that you’re that daft, Theseus. You know why you’re here.”

“It’s political suicide to be doing what you’re suggesting,” he said plainly, and somewhere in the back of his mind something panged — the feeling of deja vu, only surreal and reverse. Irony.

“If my job is the price of detaining a madman and rescuing a man who has jumped into harm’s way merely because we asked and another who has risked life and limb for both myself and this country multiple times, I’d say it’s a price worth paying. Perhaps the first decision I’ll have made in a long time that I do not regret, in fact.”

Theseus stared at her for a long time, the cold from his coat slowly fading before the heat of the fire. Finally he threw his hands out weakly at his sides.

“So what now? We have four people against a man who masterminded not only an escape, but his own _capture_? We have no idea of where the bastard is or if he’s even still in the states. He could be back in England for all we know!”

“He _could_ be a great many places. The question is where _is_ he?”

“Cross—our turncoat... I imagine you’ve interrogated him already. Anything useful?” Theseus asked. He caught a strange look in Tina’s gaze, one pointed at the director, and once again his eyes fell on the swollen knuckles of her hand. Beneath his scrutiny she clenched the top of the chair a little tighter, turning her rosy knuckles pale. 

“Nothing of use. He was a pawn, nothing more. He thought himself important until he realized he didn’t have any real answers. He doesn’t know where Grindelwald is or where he took our people," Picquery said.

“Lovely. Excellent. Fan-fucking-tastic—“ beside him, Queenie gasped, no doubt catching onto the sudden onslaught of his rage inside, his words temperate by comparison. 

“Director—“ Tina started, only for Theseus to turn on her.

“Don’t call me that! I’m wanted for questioning in the failed mission of what should have been a simple extraction! Men are _dead_ because I failed to direct the situation. I am no director, and if Graves were here, he would have told you to hand me over like the Ministry requested,” he spun on Picquery, furious when suddenly his voice went hoarse and weak. “And you know it.”

“I think you credit his lawfulness too much, Mr. Scamander, he was hardly black and white. Regardless, he is _not_ here. We must make do with who we have, and who we have is who you see in this room — yourself included. In war we do not always get to pick the soldiers, but we must fight the battle nonetheless.”

Theseus sucked in a breath, ready to retort, but Tina cut him off.

“The dead are dead,” she said, and although her words were soft they were rigid in her conviction. “To quit now doesn’t change that. It just ensures that Newt and Graves are lost, too.”

“Because death must reap some result in order to be valuable, is that it? Death is _death_ , it doesn’t care for what worth we gleamed from their lives because _they are dead._ People are not tokens to be spent toward victory!”

Picquery withdrew her hands from the back of her chair with a small sigh, her eyes closed as though weary, and collected herself.

“I have to return to my office, lest anyone suspect… And everyone here is tired, I’m sure. We can’t act on empty regardless, so everyone take some time to gather your thoughts. We’ll reconvene in the evening and go over what we know then.”

“But Madam—!” Tina started, but Queenie gave her a soft, if firm, look.

“You’re fit to tip over, Teenie. She’s right.”

Tina lowered her head into her hands, elbows braced upon her knees, and bit her lip.

“We are all eager to right the wrongs that occurred last night,” Picquery said, holding up a hand when Theseus seemed ready to retort, “As much as possible, at least. But right now we are weary, we are hopeless, and we are at our wits end. Rest. Make your peace with what happened. Take advantage of what little time we have. I’ll return as soon as possible.”

When no one argued, she disappeared with a little pop, but her absence did little to lift the heaviness of the room. With a snort, Theseus stomped his way out of the room — intent on some semblance of seclusion so he could think. As he left, he could hear Queenie quietly tell her sister she should eat something and felt his fists tighten at his sides.

Just more souls to worry about. Just more good people who might die.

He disappeared into the halls, unaware of Queenie’s gaze.

* * *

“Percy? Sweetie, how are you feeling?”

“Percy’s a baby’s name,” Percival muttered miserably into his pillow with a sniffle, eyes swollen and painful, head throbbing with pressure, chest tight with a cough. His bottom lip was caught on a trembling pout though he tried to look fierce, to look stern — like father. He only scowled a little harder, a little cuter, when above him his mother chuckled and brushed his hair from his eyes.

“Percival,” she amended gracefully, eyes soft, “How are you feeling?”

He opened his eyes and the sight of her alone was a kindness. Long black hair pulled back into an elegant charm that tousled her curls into a lovely sheet behind her — longer than most ladies kept their hair lately, painting her like a beautiful star amongst a sea of similar faces. Her eyes were warmer than the brown shade they seemed at first glance, like hot chocolate on a snowy day, dark and comforting and sweet. She seemed untouched by time or pain to him, a solid rock of gentleness in a world that expected so much.

“ _You can’t be a mother’s boy forever, Percival,”_ said a voice, a memory, the titan of a man who had cast him in a tall shadow. He wanted to fill those shoes. He wanted to do his family proud. He didn’t want to need her.

But he was so happy just to see her. He forced himself to look away. 

The hand that brushed his cheek was cool, lovely and kind, and he whimpered just a little before he could stop himself — teeth blunt where he bit his lip to quiet himself. His mother cradled his round little jaw in her slender hands and lifted his chin to look at her. Her thumbs brushed at the heat in his cheeks as she looked at him, a little frown on her lips; worried. 

“S’hot,” he mumbled dejectedly, too keen for comfort to stop himself, and nestled a little closer into the softness of her palms when she crooned softly at him. “Hurts.”

“Oh baby,” she said, and it sounded like a lullaby, “I’m so sorry.”

Father was away, he knew. That was the only reason why he didn’t push away when she climbed into his bed to cradle his tiny body in her arms as though he were a babe and not a ‘big boy’. The only reason why he allowed himself to sniffle, congested and miserable, and lean his head onto her collarbone as she settled the both of them into a comfy position against the headboard of his bed.

She pulled a book from the nightstand, the one she read a chapter from each night — _just one chapter now, Percy, and then you have to sleep_ — and turned to the page that she had lovingly dogeared the night before. She rested her chin atop his head, the comfort of her touch more affective than the potion she had coaxed him to drink that morning. And finally he felt his lids begin to sag as her words lull him gently to someplace softer, someplace kinder. 

He felt safe like this, curled up in the gentle circle of his mother’s arms. He wished he didn’t need it. Wished he was bigger, stronger — like father. But it was nice, just for a moment, to be held. And father wasn’t here anyways.

He let himself fall asleep; not like his father, but like a son. Small and curled against his mother’s chest, his little hands tucked beneath his chin. His mother brushed a kiss against his hairline and whispered, “It’s okay to be Percy. It’s okay to rest.”

He didn’t hear it.

* * *

Pretty’s eyes shot open and all at once, a shiver ran through his body. He was nestled in the grasp of warm arms, but nothing like the arms from his dream. Where the woman’s arms had been gentle and loving, these arms were tight and possessive, holding him impossibly close to a chest that felt like an inferno against his back. He tried to remain perfectly still, lest the owner of those arms wake, but lips moved against the soft hairs of his neck regardless.

“A nightmare?” His master asked him, voice rough with sleep. Pretty kept his eyes trained ahead, locked on the sight of his other master naked and crumpled on the floor, so unlike the man he knew, shackled and shivering in his sleep.

Pretty shook his head, the gesture so minute one might’ve missed it, but Grindelwald didn’t. He kissed his neck, tender and generous, and Pretty squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight before him and try to focus on _him_ , on his master, like he had been trained. It felt good to be comforted. It felt good to be cared for.

So why did he feel so sick?

He swallowed down a thick knot in his throat, but it wouldn’t seem to go away. His stomach felt uneasy, unlike his normal hunger. He could feel his master’s eyes on him, piercing through the back of his skull, looking for something Pretty couldn’t name but everyone seemed to expect of him. He wished he knew what it was, how to be _that_. He curled his fists closer to his chest and backed into the solid wall of his master behind him, and as he had hoped, those arms closed even tighter around him. He hoped they would anchor him.

It just made it worse. 

He whimpered and Grindelwald kissed his neck, his shoulder, and breathed into his skin, “Hush now, little love.”

Hands moved from the cross of his own arms over his chest to skim the sharp point of his hip and the shiver flank of his thigh. Pretty pressed his face into the pillow and tried to fall back asleep.

He missed the woman from his dreams. Even as the memory faded, he missed her.

He wanted so desperately to be looked at the way she looked at him.

He wanted so desperately to be loved at first sight, unmistaken for another. 

To be wanted.

He swallowed down the whimper that threatened to rise lest his master wake, and continued to watch his other master sleep on the floor. He wondered if he could please them both. He wondered if he did, if either one of them could love him.

He wondered if he could ever crawl out of the shadow of the man who he had seen sometimes in the dark. The sleeping man, the floating man — the beloved man.

The man that he was not.

* * *

“I’m not quite sure that the Madam President would approve of you draining her liquor cabinet, Mr. Scamander,” a voice chirped from the staircase, but Theseus had not a care left with which to make him turn. A Ministry auror come to take him? Let them. One of Grindelwald’s followers come to kill him? They certainly took their time.

Not that he was worried; he could recognize the smokey softness of Queenie’s tone from anywhere. Gentle like dawn and just as piercing. 

He gripped his glass a little tighter and felt the edges of his mouth spread into a long, firm line. 

“She can put it on my tab,” he said and had to force himself not to flinch at the hoarseness of his own voice, far more affected than he would have liked it to be. A little soft around the vowels and somewhat more cockney than proper quite suddenly. Thicker, like so many years ago. A smile flashed across his mind’s eyes, _mud on their cheeks, making their teeth shine white by comparison._ Theseus grimaced.

A lithe woman came to sit beside him, so light she barely displaced the air around her. He couldn’t bring himself to greet her though. Not with his words or his eyes. He kept his gaze firmly downward, and for a moment he wished the golden contents of his glass might swallow him. He was already drowning anyways.

He thanked every star in the sky that she didn’t touch him.

In fact, she didn’t press the conversation any further for a moment. Instead, she flicked her wand at the rather large rack of booze in front of them and selected a Muggle brand—a simple vodka—from the shelves and compelled a glass to meet its lip. With a blink, Theseus watched as she poured herself a rather generous portion of clear liquor into her glass, only to follow it with a jar of cranberry juice from the little fridge beneath the shelves, turning the drink as pink and bubbly as she was. It floated to her waiting hand, and with a wink, she tipped the glass forward to him. At a loss, he tapped his glass to hers.

“To the people we’ve lost,” she said, and while the kindness of her smile had not faded, the bubbliness of her voice had. It was with a subdued tone that she spoke the words, respectful of the days that had passed, and Theseus found himself in awe of her. She’d make a bloody good politician were she a more glory-driven person. Or a damn frightfully good auror if given the chance. He’d have to speak with—

He grimaced and knocked back his glass.

“To the people I should have saved,” he rasped after, and Queenie turned on her stool to better address him. He knew the look on her face. He had seen it on countless others—good people who thought that they could save him. That they could talk the pain away. That they could convince him that his hands were not stained red when he saw them every fucking day, bloody and wet and weeping. 

“If Percival were here, he’d smack you right in your perfect teeth.”

“Well he’s not,” Theseus said instantly, his eyes as sharp as the amber of his glass as he refilled it. “Aren’t I lucky?”

“Mr. Scamander—”

“— _What?_ ” He finally snarled and spun his head to face her, shocked himself at how quickly he had lost himself again. Again, again — _you’re losing it, Scamander, this is why they’re dead._ “What do you want from me? To get over it? Just forget that there’s two men whose bodies we can’t even recover and send home for a proper burial? Forget that I let that madman take them, take Percival and, and— _Fuck!”_

He crushed the glass in his hand. Whiskey exploded around his grasp and stung the wounds the shards left behind, licks of dragon’s fire—decorative and harmless—shimmered around the places where his palm wept. 

His hand shook in the silence, and he waited for the inevitable admonishment, but it didn’t come. When finally he looked up, it was not to pity or disgust, but understanding. And with a flinch, he realized his hand did not quite hurt. And with a guilty plummet of his stomach, he realized she was holding her own hand—pale and perfect—her eyes tight with discomfort.

“I can help,” she finally said softly, her lips trembling but bravely staying straight. “Please.”

“How?” He asked.

“I can help you navigate it,” she said. “I can help hold some of it off so you can finally think for a second. I can…” She held her hand up, her fingers trembling frightfully. “I can share the load.”

With a wave of his own wand, Theseus fixed the damage to his hand and watched as relief quickly spilled across Queenie’s face.

“How did you do that?” He asked. “I thought you were just a Legilimens?”

“It’s… hard to explain. But Legilimency isn’t as simple as reading another’s mind. There’s a reason we don’t like to be called ‘Mind-Readers’. It’s not so simple. The mind isn’t just a bowl of thoughts to be plucked from; it’s like an onion. It has layers. Legilimency is the ability to _explore_ those layers. That’s what I do. It can go deeper than just catching random thoughts from a person. I can empathize with them. I can siphon what they feel. Shift around the weight of a certain thought so it’s momentarily easier to bare. The opportunity just doesn’t arrive very often, thankfully. It’s quite draining.”

Theseus considered it for a moment. It was an enticing thought to be sure, the idea of having the weight of his guilt lifted if only for a moment. But it would not simply disappear, in his place Queenie would have to bare its burden. And even after it was gone from her, would she be able to forget? Would she too have dreams of the men and women he couldn’t save? Not just the two Aurors from the execution chamber or Pretty’s big wet eyes or Newt’s determined face, but the people who Grindelwald had killed? The people _he_ had killed? In service and in war? Would they haunt her?

Did he deserve even a moment of reprieve?

“I don’t want to forget,” he croaked. The thought of it felt like a disservice unto life. Decisions bore consequences. To be exempt from them was a dangerous path, one he did not think he would survive and still be considered a good man.

“You won’t,” she said, “I can’t remove them entirely. It’s not so… invasive. I can just help build a wall between you and those feelings for a short time. Perhaps thirty minutes tops. Enough time to help you think. After you sober up, of course.”

She gently plucked the glass from his hand, and surprisingly, he let her. He only watched as she spelled it clean and sent it back to its brothers on the shelf, pristine and glistening. He did not call it back.

Queenie settled back onto her stool and took a small sip from her own glass, nearly half finished now, and asked, “What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Pretty.”

Theseus stilled. His palm itched.

“I think you already know,” was all he said. His thoughts were no stranger to her and he was no stranger to thinking the worst of the creature that had suddenly arisen within his best friend’s skin. He watched her curiously as she studied her own glass, hands suddenly trembling again. “You haven’t met him?”

“No… Maybe it’s foolish, but… I’m afraid.”

Something glimmered faintly on her cheek; a tear. It fell into her glass with a silencing drop. Her vodka rippled and stilled, as though her pain were a fleeting thing, and in that moment Theseus felt something terrible seize his gut.

Anger.

He did not want to like this woman. Not Queenie or Tina or Picquery. He couldn’t afford any more kind faces in his life, he had no more flowers left to rest on people’s graves. Her tears felt like another weight to him, ready to be shackled onto the chains of his title, and for a terribly selfish moment, he hated her for asking him -- if unconsciously -- to bare it.

A stupid thought. A childish thought. A thought he didn’t mean.

She caught it all the same.

She quickly scrubbed at her cheeks with the balls of her wrists, her smile weak and fake and watery as she tried to calm herself.

“Sorry, sorry, no you’re right,” she stammered, “I shouldn’t, you already have so much to—”

He grabbed her by the shoulder and waited for her to peek up at him from over the wet flesh of her palms and wrists, eyes wide. He searched her face, searched the selflessness of her actions and the kindness of her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’m not good company… But don’t apologize. Not to me, not to anyone. You have every right to be afraid. And no one would blame you for protecting yourself. Your gift isn’t free after all. Draining I believe you called it...”

Her eyes widened even further as Theseus gently lowered her hands and wiped the last of her tears away, forcing himself to clip one more life onto the ever shortening chain of people he cared about. 

“You don’t always have to smile, Queenie. It’s okay to not want to hurt,” he said. “I don’t blame you for being afraid to hear him. Not for one second. Not after what Grindelwald did.”

Her face scrunched up, pink and unpleasant, and she lunged forward to hide in the broadness of him. He let her. Even though it hurt. Even though it made his shoulders heavier.

If Queenie could keep helping others, he could too.

“Thank you,” she whimpered.

He wrapped his arms around her, and it anchored them both.

“Thank you,” he said back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these last two chapters (now three) are stretching out a little more than I'd like but I swear, we are ALMOST THERE. This was getting on to 17 pages though with 7 more scenes before the "end" so I figured it best to go ahead and post. Good news is the rest of this section is legit MAPPED OUT, so hopefully another update soon. And then, of course, the end -- which will mark this as the first fanfiction I've ever finished (so long as we don't count the fact that it will be rolling into a sequel haaha)
> 
> Bare with me a little longer.
> 
> And as always, just - THANK YOU for all the encouragement you've all provided. None of this would have been possible without you. You never cease to inspire and make my day. Bless you all, you kind souls, for putting up with me. <3


	14. Sticks and Stones

He was beautiful. Perfect even. Kneeling on the bed, waiting for him. Lips parted on a hopeful sigh, his gaze only for him. Cock hard and pleasantly pink where it strained against his belly between the parted white of his borrowed dress shirt. Eyes only for him, on him, watching and eager and so open. His lips only parted more when Newt touched them, soft and plump beneath his thumb. 

"Pretty," Newt rasped, only to startle at the sound of chains behind him. He turned, but outside the halo of light that bubbled the bed he could see nothing — just endless inky blackness and the sounds it hid. Chains knocked and dragged along the floor somewhere in those shadows. They caught on each floor board and they jangled, but one look back and it was obvious Pretty could not hear it. Or would not.

"I want to say thank you," Pretty said, eyes so big and so brown. Pale hands reached for Newt's lithe hips and tugged him closer.

Something cold pulled at Newt's gut even as his crotch began to feel tight inside his trousers. Thank you. It held the whisper of a memory. Something complex and hard to navigate, but he couldn't remember why. 

Fingers at his belly, tugging his shirt from his waist. Warm and soft and familiar with the motions. Newt jerked when the chains clanged again. With a gasp he turned, Pretty's fingers barely still tucked beneath the waistband of his pants as he searched the darkness again.

A growl and another symphony of angry chains. They left him worried and on edge. A reminder, but of what?

"Who's there?" He called, but Pretty tugged him back, eyes watery and sad beneath the petal perfect pink of his little smile.

"Thank you," he whimpered. His fingers shook at his button. It parted with a little hush of fabric. "Thank you."

Newt caught his wrist before he could go for the zipper.

"What's out there, Pretty?"

Pretty shook his head, eyes darting to the darkness only to quickly dart away. He struggled to continue, but Newt held his hands fast. 

"What's out there?" He repeated. "Is it Grindelwald?"

Pretty shook his head, ears tight against the shifting tide of his black locks. He smiled and he shook and only his lashes, something wet began to grow. But he smiled. He smiled, he smiled, he smiled.

"Answer me," he urged, sharp and urgent and frustrated, only to feel his chest seize at the sight of Pretty flinching away from him. He lowered his voice and leaned in, pulled Pretty's trembling hands from his pants to hold them between their chests — slender wrists enclosed in large hands — and tried again, softly. "Please, Pretty. Who's out there?"

Pretty looked at him for a long time, his breath hitching on a short little sob even as his smile remained pristine. And then, slowly, his eyes drifted from Newt's to just over his shoulder. And just as slowly, Newt turned to follow them.

He could see the chains now, leading from the bed into the darkness. Shaking with every sound of dragging metal until finally a foot appeared inside the circle of light they sat in, bare and dirty. Then a naked shin and tattered pants, a slender hip, two hands and a beaten torso. Ribs he could count and a hollow belly, and finally, a long and slender neck encased with a strip of letter and two tags: the token of the Deathly Hollows and a little disk of gold. And on that little disk the tag displayed a name he could not make out, but he knew it was not Pretty.

The man who wore that collar also wore Newt's face. Freckles dull beneath dirt and grime, eyes dull and feral and angry. Lips cracked and split. Hair lank and messy, a wild halo of red. 

"You know what's in the darkness," the figure said, and suddenly the hands he held seized his hands instead, drawing him back to Pretty.

Only it wasn't Pretty. Those red curls didn't belong to Pretty, nor did those freckles or the sea foam green of those eyes. Sharp auburn ears stood perked where black ones had been, and again those hands went for the zipper.

"Thank you," the figure on the bed said, broken and smiling and so desperate to please, and all at once Newt found himself scrabbling off the bed. He landed on his back with a sharp slap, winded immediately, and squinted up as chains dragged again and the man from the darkness came to stand above him.

"You know what's in the darkness," the figure said again. "You know what's coming."

* * *

 

Newt startled awake at the harsh clang of a bowl being dropped at his side, water splashing up onto his thigh and belly – cold, making him jump with a shout. He tried to roll onto his feet, ready to fight, only for the chains to hold him taut again. He leaned against the give of those chains, what little there was of it, and shook out his hair. It hadn’t been a dream. He was chained and captive, and apparently he was naked now. A cold tendril of dread and disgust seized his belly tight at the thought of when and how Grindelwald had accomplished that.

Above him Grindelwald smiled, and if a smile could look like grease smeared across milk, that would aptly describe the way it sat on the dark wizard’s face.

“Good morning, Mr. Scamander.”

“I’d hardly describe it as good,” Newt said before he could derail his tongue, but for once he did not shy his eyes away. Humans were hard to look in the eyes. Predators, less so. He knew what to expect from Grindelwald.

He knew the hunger that burned in his eyes.

With a snort, Grindelwald moved to greet Pretty on the bed, taking great care to treat him kindly by comparison to Newt's rude awakening. He cradled his jaw with a loving palm and brushed a thumb of the sleepy pinkness of his cheeks. On the sheets Pretty's tail thumped at the attention. 

"Look at my boy, Mr. Scamander. Look at how happy he is," he said as he pulled away, chuckling softly at the way Pretty whined, only to conjure a plate of fruit and cheese as he took a seat atop the bed with Pretty. Newt watched furiously as the man plucked a grape from that plate and held it out, only to feel the smallest flair of pride when Pretty merely stared at the offered piece of food for a moment and reached to take it with his hands — stopping only when Grindelwald grunted expectedly. "You know better."

With tucked ears, ashamed of his misstep, Pretty leaned in to take that fruit with tongue and lips and the smallest hint of teeth, careful not to nip the madman as he was fed.

"You could have this, you know," Grindelwald said as he plucked another item from the plate — this time cheese — and watched Pretty take it from his fingers once again. "It doesn't have to be as hard as the director made it. You don't have to be broken to be happy."

"There's nothing you could say today that you didn't say yesterday that would change my mind," Newt growled. "You are no saint, you are no savor, and you will never be my master."

On the bed Grindelwald rose his brows, truly surprised it would seem and pleasantly so. He let out a contemplating little grunt as he shushed Pretty's anxiety away — tense and alert by Newt's tone — and fed him another piece of fruit, eyes on Pretty's tongue as he cleaned the sugar from Grindelwald's thumb.

"You are so keen to paint me as the villain. If only you understood. But you didn't know Mr. Graves as he was before — alone, unhappy, exhausted," Grindelwald mused, eyes on Pretty as he happily took another slice of cheese between his teeth. "Taken advantage of. Molded into something he was not. But no matter, he was as blind to his own pain as you are yours. If he taught me anything, there's no point arguing with the blind."

"You're the one who's blind, you lunatic," Newt spat, making Pretty tremble and draw away from Grindelwald's offered food again. The dark wizard frowned a little at that, then wisped the plate away and stood. 

"No one has ever truly seen you, have they, Newt? No one except..." Grindelwald swallowed, his throat clicked, and he continued coldly, "Albus."

Newt blinked, taken aback.

"Albus... Dumbledore?"

"It's no matter," he said, uncaring of Newt's question, and came to stood above him. "Rules. You will drink from that bowl or not at all. You will listen to me and me alone. You will crawl on all fours or I will make you. We will begin with those simple rules before I introduce the rest. Good behavior will be rewarded, poor behavior..." Grindelwald let the words melt into a knowing little smile. "And don't worry. It will get easier. I'll be here to help you every step of the way."

"Fuck you," Newt snarled, only to quickly swallow down a yelp when Grindelwald first struck him, then lunged in to seize him by the jaw and hold him fast. Fingers tight and bruising and his smile as cold and sharp as a knife.

"Get this pettiness out of your system quickly, Newton. I will not tolerate it after tonight."

His jaw was released but the feeling remained. He licked his lip and tasted copper.

"Drink. Wrap your mind around your new life," he said as he moved back to the bed to praise Pretty one more time. Beneath his hands, Pretty preened with the attention, but every now and then his eyes darted to Newt — worried and upset. "I'll be home soon, little love. Stay on the bed until I do."

Pretty nodded as those hands left him, and both men could do nothing more than watch as their jailor slipped through the door — not even bothering to lock it behind him. Newt thrashed once in his chains in a fruitless, frustrated bid for freedom; only to stop at the sight of Pretty's wide, fearful eyes.

"I'm going to get us out of here," Newt promised. 

Pretty merely tilted his head and said, "Stay on bed," worried as though Newt might not have heard the order.

The redhead merely sighed and dropped his head back against the wall, fingers numb from the chains and stomach hollow. He closed his eyes, and as though the thought alone might manage to reach him he pleaded inside his mind, ' _Please, Theseus... hurry.'_

* * *

 

Theseus was sitting in Picquery’s living room when Queenie finally came to meet him. She was dressed comfortably. Soft pants and a loose silk tank that left little to the imagination to be honest; and it was a testament to recent events that even as lovely as she looked, Theseus felt nothing. Queenie smiled softly, a tea cup in either hand, and gently lowered one to sit in front of Theseus on the coffee table that separated them.

“Don’t feel bad, honey. It’s nice not to be leered at for a change,” she said, and there was a strange twinge to her voice. Not disappointment or longing, but perhaps nostalgia. It seemed dreadfully unfair that she could read his mind and yet all he had to go on was the weakness of her expressions. At that thought she eased herself back into the President’s rather uncomfortable cushions — more for show than actual comfort, given Seraphina’s standing — and blew on her tea before saying, “I’m missing someone, that’s all. He… was different. Lit up when I walked into a room, but not like most men do.”

“Ah,” Theseus said, not moving for his own cup. “The Muggle baker.”

Queenie looked at him slowly, to all the world uncaring, but in her big eyes he saw a storm — patient and still. Waiting.

“Yes. Jacob.”

“Your laws are stricter here… I’m sorry about that.”

Queenie relaxed minutely, her lashes a long mask to hide behind when she looked down at her cup.

“Me too.”

“So what is this?” He asked, eager to change the subject. He gestured at the cup before him, still steaming, and couldn’t help but purse his lips. Dubious, distrusting.

“Just a couple of herbs to help you relax. I can list them for you if you’d like, but I find most men glaze over the moment I start.”

“Herbs. So grass water.”

“I never said it tasted good,” she smiled over her own cup. “Only that it helped.”

It certainly did taste like grass water; as though she had captured the drippings of rain off the trees and heated it. It was not altogether disgusting, but it was a bland and unexciting flavor — one Theseus would not miss.

It did seem to help though. He felt the muscles of his shoulders relax somewhat as other muscles softened, muscles he hadn’t even known he had been straining so tightly.

“Thank you,” he murmured through a grimace.

“I’m surprised you drank it, honestly. I tried to get Mr. Graves to try it once. He more or less said he didn’t believe in the medicinal value of hot water.”

Theseus snorted; the first honest, light sound he had made in days. A twinkle entered Queenie’s eye as she took in the smallest of smiles on the ex-director’s face, her own drawn expression softening as well.

“Sounds like him,” Theseus admitted, then, “I didn’t take it for me, to be honest. If you have to deal with the clusterfuck that’s up here,” he said and pointed at his head, “I think it’s only right I do whatever I can to make it easier on you.”

Queenie paused, her curls bobbing, then smiled.

“I see why you two are friends,” she said, then before Theseus could comment quickly set down her own cup and shimmied forward on the couch until she could comfortably hold out either one of her hands across the table, palms up. When Theseus merely looked at her with wide eyes and pursed lips, she chuckled and wagged her fingers.

“Come on,” she said, “Take my hands. I won’t bite.”

“What should I expect?” Theseus asked.

Queenie tilted her head, as though thinking of the best words to say, before finally settling her gaze on him again.

“Honestly you would know better than I would. It’s your head.”

Theseus grunted and quickly scooted up, taking the time to roll up each sleeve to his elbows before reaching out to her. When his hands were just above hers, he stopped and leveled her with a firm look.

“Last chance. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to see what’s in there.”

“I pass all sorts of people on the street every day, Mr. Scamander. All day, every day, for all my life. And they’ve never held back for me. Whatever you’ve got in there might be scary, but you’re not the only person who’s seen things that go bump in the night. Trust me,” and when he didn’t move, she said, “I’m… I didn’t notice either, Mr. Scamander. I can hear people’s thoughts and _I didn’t notice._ I can’t sleep because I think about what he went through, waiting for one of us to see that scoundrel for what he was and I… I’m not like my sister. I’m no sleuth, I wasn’t trained to fight. But I want to help… if this is how I can help, I’m gonna do it.”

Theseus let his hands fall into hers and said softly, “You don’t give yourself much credit, Ms. Goldstein.”

Queenie chuckled and closed her eyes.

“Neither do you. Now close your eyes. Try to clear your head. You’ll know when I’ve got the walls up.”

He watched her a moment longer, her face perfectly calm and still like the surface of a quiet lake. Suddenly he could hear how loud the clock on the far wall was; ticking, ticking, ticking. He could hear someone shifting upstairs, perhaps Tina. The room was empty, the morning sun slowly spilling in through the windows.

With a sigh, Theseus slowly closed his eyes. It felt like slowly submerging into darkness, the kindness of Picquery’s living room slowly fading away into endless, expansive blackness on all sides. The floor beneath him reflected his own image back to him. The space was seamless, the horizon endless in every direction.

It was suffocating in its infinity, in its silence. As though man’s fear of eternity had been comprised into one room.

Theseus twisted on heel in a full circle, eyes keen for a familiar face, but Queenie was nowhere in sight. Instead, when he turned, it was Kingsley that stood behind him — looking at him with that high, frozen rictus smile.

“Hey boss,” he said.

Theseus quickly shut the thought down as one might shut a window, hands shaking at his sides as he tried to catch his breath. They had never appeared that quickly before, although he was grateful that they were still responding to the techniques he had learned. His palms shook on that metaphorical window sill, as though afraid that it might open again were he to move and invite the horror of Kingsley’s death – _Theseus’ failure_ – back into his mind.

“Q-Queenie?” He tried.

“Who’s that?” A voice asked from behind him, cockney accent thick. He didn’t need to turn to know it was the other auror that had died standing behind him, grinning just as ghoulishly. He clenched his eyes shut and snarled.

“You’re not real,” he said, and turned, hands out as though to slam a door shut, and did so. The presence behind him vanished.

He bent over, hands clenching desperately at his knees, and gasped in a desperate breath. He felt exhausted already. His toes and fingers were tingling and numb. He wanted to lie down, to let them eat him, to stop. This was a mistake. This wasn’t like having to deal with random, invasive reminders of his inadequacies. This wasn’t like the night terrors, the memories. This was different. Claustrophobic. Closing in on him on all sides. He tried to suck in another breath and it came a little shorter. He cursed.

“Queenie!” He shouted.

An echo of a sound raced across the darkness like a stone starting a ripple across a pond, so far away he barely caught it. He turned quickly in the direction it had come from, but nothing was there.

“Queenie?” He asked, ready to head in that direction, certain it had sounded somewhat like her, only for a different noise to stop him: the sound of shifting paper behind him. He stilled.

“I received your letter in a rather peculiar way today. Did you change owl services? Or purchase one? The regal little bugger seems too off brand from traditional post owls you tend to use, but I know you, you’d never have a personal owl in your home. Won’t even get a dog.”

The voice trailed off innocently enough as the sound of paper being flipped filled the infinite space as though it were in fact small – like a bedroom or a study. But Theseus didn’t need to hear it. He already knew the letter by heart, each word as easily identifiable and heartbreaking as the sound of his best friend’s voice. Confident, capable, unimpressed. Wrapping around each character and syllable of Theseus’ blindness as though combing through a death sentence.

“‘Away too much for it.’ Honestly, the company would be good for you… but I can already picture the exasperated face you must be making. Yes, we have had this conversation. No, we don’t need to go through it again. I’m just saying, dogs are called “man’s best friend” for a reason, Percival. In lieu of a dog, at least you have me, huh? That’s right, that dog idea suddenly sounds much better, doesn’t it? You boring old man.”

Theseus turned slowly, dreading every second, but the reveal came all the same. There he was. His best friend, his confidant; dressed just as he remembered him. Finely tailored slacks and the whitest button down he had ever seen, rolled up to the elbows, practically glowing against the marble black of Theseus’ mind. The top two buttons were undone, his feet clad in just his socks — just as he might’ve looked when he read the letter in the sanctity of his home office if the letter had ever truly reached _him_ instead of his imposter.

In his hands there was a simple strip of leather instead of the papers Theseus had heard shuffling; brown and thick and innocent, capped with a ring and two tags that glimmered brightly.

“You didn’t notice,” Percival said. Theseus’s eyes darted from the collar to his friend’s face and flinched at the sudden coldness he found there – his friend’s smile was gone.

“Val, I—”

“I thought we were friends, brothers even. Why didn’t you notice? Is he so truly like me? Am I so easily mimicked?”

“Please stop—”

“Well?” Percival said, his face suddenly frightening as he took a step forward, cowing Theseus back. His heart was thundering, his breath short and painful. There was no excuse, he should have known, he—

Suddenly Percival stopped; his stillness beyond any concept of human ability, resembling more a statue than a man. A row of delicately manicured fingers appeared over the man’s shoulder as Queenie Goldstein slipped into view from behind him, her cheeks flush and her breathing short as though she had been running. She brushed back a suddenly limp looking curl and looked at him, but her smile was anything but confident.

“Sorry sweetie, I… I didn’t account for the fact that you’re trained to keep people out,” she said, breathless, only to suddenly flinch and retract her hand from Percival’s image as though she had been burned, and immediately the man began to move again as though he had never been stilled.

“So you’ve brought a stranger into your mind now. Is that how far you’ve fallen?” Percival sneered, not even looking Queenie’s way as he began to advance on Theseus again – seemingly growing taller the more Theseus crumpled in on himself with every poisonous word and every pointed step. “You can’t even control this yourself? Disgusting. No wonder you didn’t notice I was gone.”

Theseus sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his side, an old scar blaring to life as though he had been freshly stabbed. Except… no, he didn’t have a scar there. He had never been stabbed there. But a quick scrabbling of hands revealed a whole network of scars across his belly, silvery white lines that spelled out cruel things like _failure_ and _fake_ and _murderer._ Somewhere he heard someone gasp, but it was as though the air in this infinite space was suddenly being drawn inward, the world crushing him as his heart raced and he fumbled through the act of rolling up his sleeves, revealing yet more words and more lines and more pain.

_Disappointment. Impulsive. Tactless. Mistake._

And finally, in the place where it felt as though his skin were being split in two, just over the right side of his gut – _Self-Absorbed._

He ran shaking fingertips overtop the upraised words, red and welted and hot, and inhaled sharply at the fresh wave of pain the action brought him.

“ _Th—us!”_ A shout came to him as though from across a wide sea, but he could not hear it over the hollow crashing of the waves his breath made, his ears cottoned with the sound of a hundred regrets.

Only to be silenced, his ears ringing like the bombs often left them, the moment another footstep pierced the angry tide of his turmoil. He looked up, his shirt a mess and untucked from his pants, and shrank from the prim, proper image of his friend. Hair perfectly coiffed, suddenly back in his shoes. Dressed in all the layered armor of his suits. Perfect and powerful, and utterly cold.

“Self-absorbed,” Percival drawled slowly, eyes caught on the angry scarring beneath Theseus’ trembling fingers. “At least you know what you are. Self-absorbed. Too preoccupied with your own matters to see your friend drowning. Grindelwald sent you so many opportunities to notice, too, didn’t he? And you never did. You killed me with your blindness just like you killed those men with your inaptitude.”

Beneath his fingers, the word emblazoned into his skin began to weep. He staggered back but could not seem to look away from the demon approaching him.

“Tell me I’m wrong, _director_. Tell me you didn’t use those people like cannon fodder in your mad dash for glory. They were just tools to you. Easily disposable, easy to replace. You showed up at their funerals and you squeezed the shoulders of the little boys who lost their mothers and gave a kerchief to the little girls who lost their fathers, and all the while you were really just thinking about the next step you’d have to take to catch him – damn the consequences.”

“No,” Theseus wheezed, but it felt as though his lungs were filled with water – filled with blood. “I cared for them. I cared—”

“You didn’t. If you had, you would have stepped down after your first failure. What made you think you could ever be a leader? You’re hot-headed and glory starved; more a hound than a master. And you were a fool to ever think you were anything more than that. A hound, a tool, a gun.”

“No,” Theseus moaned and shook his head, but his shirt was damp now. He whimpered and clutched it, but no magic could seem to close the wound that spread from the word beneath his fingers.

“You should quit,” Percival said, advancing again. “Let more qualified aurors catch him. You should give up. Everyone would be better off if you disa—”

A resounding slap executed the silence, sending a ripple of space throughout the infinity of Theseus’ mind. He blinked, tears dropping from his face, only to find that Percival was gone and instead it was Queenie standing before him, her hand still out and her cheeks shining from the tears she couldn’t stop. His cheek smarted, fiery and stinging.

“Stop it,” she said, and when her voice shook, he could scarcely pinpoint the emotion behind it. But surely it was shock. Revulsion. Disgust. She had seen him for what he really was.

A look of dismay melted across Queenie’s face and she rushed forward. He flinched, eyes closed, awaiting another blow, only to still at the feeling of lithe arms winding around him and a face pressed into his chest.

“Stop it!” She said again more urgently, her curls bobbing with the force of it. “How could you think those things? Those horrible, horrible things?”

Theseus shook, but did not pull away.

“It’s the truth,” he said, dull and hollow and resigned.

“No, it’s not!” She said again, fierce and so fiery she almost felt warm against the icy touch of all his scars. “And to put all those horrible words in Mr. Graves’ mouth – you can’t possibly think he’d ever say such things!”

“Queenie, I—”

“No!” She said and grabbed him by either arm to pull him back enough to look him in the eye. “Look at me Theseus Scamander. Look me in the eye and tell me what kind of man you think Percival Graves is.”

Theseus stilled and somewhere in the darkness ice groaned.

“He’s… He’s a good man. The best bloke I’ve ever met. Selfless and honest and so bloody clever. He’s… he’s the sort of man I wish I could be.”

Queenie nodded at him, the force of it shaking loose more tears, but she smiled wetly.

“Exactly,” she whispered. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“The best,” Theseus repeated, hoarse and broken.

“Would a man like that ever say those things?”

Theseus recoiled, but she grabbed him a little tighter and made him face her, urgent as she dipped to catch his gaze.

“Theseus, think about it. Would the man you respect so much _ever_ say such horrible things?”

Around them, ice cracked in the darkness – thunderous and shifting. Theseus shook his head, unable to say the words, unable to grant himself mercy but trembling beneath the sheer possibility of hope nonetheless.

“What would he say?”

“Queenie,” he moaned.

“ _What would the real Percival Graves say, Theseus?”_

Water began to rise at their ankles, a roaring filling the air around them. Over Queenie’s shoulder he could see figures in the distance, their clothing familiar but their faces cold and unfeeling and dead as they smiled cruelly back at him. Waiting.

Hands grabbed at his face and pulled his gaze back down to her, earnest even as the water rose to swallow them both. Once she had his attention, she moved her hands from his jaw to trace lightly over the temples of his brow with two fingers each. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her. All he could see was the way she cried, the way she urgently moved her lips to call to him. And then those fingers touched down and he blinked and everything was gone. The darkness, the water, the faces, the scars – _Queenie_ – all of it was gone.

Instead he stood atop a grand hill overlooking at vast shire of swirling gold grain. In the meadow he could see his family’s herd of hippogriffs milling idly about and among their feet, a tiny figure darted around. Even from here he could see the boy’s red shock of curls and curious hands as they greeted each animal, and just behind him their mother followed lovingly.

He pressed the palm of one hand to the bark of the grand apple tree that shaded him so kindly, his hair tousled gently by the memory of a familiar breeze. It felt so real, sturdy and rough beneath his palm just as he remembered it. He pressed his brow into the bark, took a breath and just listened. Listened to the giggling melody of his brother’s childhood from the meadow and the sturdy cadence of the herd and the gentle singing of his mother. The sound of his father working the fields. The crescendo of late summer’s cicadas. His own breathing, still alive.

And finally, the crinkle of a letter gone long unnoticed in his own hand. He opened his eyes and looked down, only to see a familiar scrawl across its top. His name, written by Percival’s neat hand.

_Whiskers_

He laughed, sharp and painful, and turned to brace his back against the tree before sliding down to its base, grateful for its support as he opened the letter carefully.

“What would the real Percival Graves say,” Theseus repeated softly beneath his breath as he unfolded the letter, hands trembling, revealing yet more neat, cursive script.

“I missed your birthday,” he read aloud, then quickly ran a few fingers over the scruff of his jaw and over his mouth as he remembered precisely what letter he was reading. A letter from before Grindelwald, before either of them had begun to gray. Just a few short months after Percival had become director. He pressed his head back against the tree and closed his eyes, only to let out a short little breath at the feeling of someone settling down beside him, warm against his side.

“I told myself time and again not to forget and yet here we are, five days past it. I’m so sorry,” a gentle voice said beside him, a shoulder bumping friendly and kind against his own. “I’m afraid I’m growing into a forgetful old fool. Maybe that’s what happens when you finally get where you wanted to go… you just immediately grow old. Speaking of, how old are you now? When I stopped counting my age, I admit I sort of stopped counting yours as well. Although knowing you, you’d probably say something stupid like “still younger than you”. Ha. You bastard.”

Theseus chuckled, but his laugh quickly turned to clenched teeth, the letter suddenly caught in the vice of his fingers and palm. Beside him, Percival continued nonetheless.

“I’m afraid I can’t be there to celebrate in person. Perhaps for the best, considering what happened to us last time we went drinking. But I did want to tell you something.”

Theseus bowed his head.

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed before moving up to cup the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” Percival said, slow and measured and as steadfast as the wind in the branches of the great apple tree. “Thank you for being my friend. My brother, even. I… I never had a brother, growing up. I never knew what it was like to have someone at your back in a fight or support you through your successes or pick you back up when you failed. My mother left this world when I was young and my father… he was strict before, but he was never the same after. I was cold and I was guarded and I was a small, lonely man before I met you. I thought of myself as nothing more than a weapon to protect my country. I thought it was my familial duty. And then I met you. I wish I could tell you this in person, and I’m sorry that it took this long for me to say it, but…

 _You saved me, Theseus_. You saved me from a dead, cold life. And whatever good I’ve done, it hasn’t been because of my father’s training or my family’s power or any test scores or precision fighting. Any good I’ve done, any _real_ good I’ve done, I’ve done it because of you. Because your friendship taught me what it meant to be a good man.

There should be a bottle with this letter. Go ahead and pour one out. A toast to another year lived and a second to what lies ahead. You’re like good brandy, Theseus. You only get better with age. I can’t wait to see what you’ll do, and hopefully we can share this toast together face to face soon.

Yours, Pup.”

Theseus sucked in a breath, his hands turned to vices on his knees as the letter turned to ash, gone with the wind. He bowed his head and he shook.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “For not noticing. For thinking you’d say all those things. For not… for not saving you. I don’t know if I can.”

“What makes a good man isn’t who they save or how many,” Percival said softly. “What makes a good man is the fact that they tried. Even if they were afraid. Even if it hurt. They tried to do what’s right. You’re a good man, Theseus Scamander. Nothing you say to yourself will ever change that.”

He opened his eyes and turned to look at his friend, as young as he had last seen him below the apple tree. Face round with the victory of youth and barren of the lines that duty would carve into his face. Free of the collar or its many maladies.

Free.

“Jesus Christ, I wish you were here.”

Percival smiled.

“Why is that?”

“You’re cleverer than me. You always know what perspective to look at a situation.”

Percival snorted and rolled his eyes before finally drawing his hand from Theseus’ neck to lean back comfortably into the tree and enjoy the shade.

“Flatterer, but we both know that’s not true.”

“I can’t figure out where he took you, pup.”

Percival hummed, serene looking beneath the tree, hair gently shifting in the breeze.

“Well if I didn’t want to be found, I’d go to the first place my hunter would think I’d go.”

Theseus blinked.

“Why?”

Percival smiled and opened one eye to look at him. “Because you’d think I’m too clever to go somewhere so obvious.”

Theseus sat up, his heart still in his chest, but already the world around him was caving in – the meadow and its shifting wheat dissolving into a flurry of golden butterflies, a whirlwind of shimmering wings quickly dispersing.

“Oh god,” Theseus whispered, “He’s—”

Percival smiled.

“I’ll see you soon.”

 

* * *

 

As though he had been drowning, Theseus burst back into the waking world with a ragged intake of breath, finally back at the surface. He jetted up to his feet, startling Queenie who also was suddenly torn from his mind but instead collapsed back against the sofa. She watched him, wide-eyed but also smiling an excited little smile.

“Did it work?” She asked.

Theseus spun to look at her, life itself blazing a thrumming melody through his fingertips and in the hollows of his feet and up the line of his spine – and then stopped, breath short and harsh as he took her in. She looked so small. Pale and drawn and sallow where she drooped into the couch. Her hair seemed dull, her eyes muted. But even so, she found the energy to smile; and damn if it wasn’t the most honest expression he had seen on someone’s face in a long time.

She was happy. Happy for him.

He smiled back and nodded.

“Good,” she whispered, her eyes becoming heavy.

He knelt gently down beside her, took one slender, limp hand into his own, and kissed it very, very softly.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled, took a breath as though to answer, but her eyes fell shut before she could. But in her sleep, she smiled.

If Percival Graves was the best man Theseus had ever met, he thought as he gathered her gently into his arms to carry her to bed, then Queenie Goldstein was easily the best woman to have ever walked this earth.  

 

* * *

 

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but Newt came to slowly, for once not to a cruel hand in his hair or a sharp sneer, but to the gentle brush of hesitant finger tips tracing the puffiness of his split lip and the soft nudge of something trying to get comfortable. He blinked, lashes caught with sleep, and tried to make sense of the situation despite his exhaustion and neglect.

It was Pretty.

The smaller man had carried the comforter from the bed and placed it around the two of them before crushing himself as close as possible to Newt, arms wrapped around him as though to act as a second blanket.

“Percy?” He rasped.

Despite the boldness of the move, Newt could feel the tremors wracking the once-upon-a-time director. He barely held Newt’s gaze for a mere moment before flicking them back toward the door, worried and watching. But he didn’t flee. He held on tight and waited for the inevitable; but he did not flee.

Newt sighed, captivated by the way such a simple breath shifted the dark colors of Pretty’s hair.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You can go back to the bed.”

He didn’t know what he thought Pretty would say. Likely nothing. It was impressive that the man had done anything of his own volition at all. Maybe Grindelwald had ordered him to do so outside of the room; perhaps this was a test, another torture – to be so close, to be cared for –

“I know,” Pretty said instead, and Newt could not help but feel as though in that moment, the world hung still. He traced the outlines of the scars on Graves’ shoulders while Pretty trembled in stolen skin, and even after the warmth they shared eased the shivers from Newt’s bones, Pretty continued to shake.

But Newt did not dare put a name to the motivation, the sudden boldness. It would hurt too much to lose Graves again, even as fleeting as their time had been.

Instead, Newt just allowed himself a moment of weakness. He silenced the worry in his chest for Pretty, for the future, and allowed himself just a moment to be warm and held. To forget that he was naked and chained to a wall and soon to follow Graves’ fate; his mind lost behind watery eyes and unnatural ears and an unending eagerness to please at all cost.

 

Newt blinked the hotness building on his lashes away and instead pressed his face into Pretty’s hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. It did not come easily. In fact, it did not come for some time. Warm and solid as he was, Pretty alone could not anchor him in his turmoil. He felt lost; adrift in a sea he couldn’t navigate. Every time he thought he had found land, it was but a dream – a trick of the eyes, a mirage.

How long until he drowned?

He was pulled from the depths by a hand holding suddenly onto his and squeezing. Although it was soft, the suddenness knocked a breath from Newt that felt like a knife piercing the silence of their prison. He pulled back to look at Pretty, unsure of what he’d find.

Pretty looked back at him and said, “You’re sad.”

Newt swallowed and rested a chin atop Pretty’s head, tucking him away and giving himself reprieve from those eyes that saw more than they let on.

“Yes. I am.”

“…I want you happy,” Pretty said softly, unsure. Newt chuckled, mouth twisted on a sour, hopeless smile – the sort of smile a bird gives when praised, knowing it will still be left to its cage when the song is done.

“I… I can’t be happy here.”

He didn’t need to look to know the man in his arms was pouting. With his eyes closed, Newt could picture it clearly. Soft ears tucked, confused brown eyes and the slightest little curl of misunderstanding to his lips. He wove a hand into Pretty’s hair and pulled them tight together, relishing in the heat of another body even as every touch panged with guilt.

 

* * *

  

“Well isn’t this sweet?” A voice purred, and before Newt could truly wake, he felt the warm weight on his chest ripped from him, blanket and all. He yelped and sat up, only for an immense pressure to force him back down, his skin prickling uncomfortably beneath the malice of the spell. He grit his teeth and peered out through squinted eyes at his attacker, only for his struggles to suddenly fall still. Grindelwald had Pretty scruffed by the back of his neck, held from his knees at an awkward angle so that the dog-eared man had to strain to relieve the pressure on his neck without breaking any rules.

“Percy—” Newt gasped, only to lose the rest of the words on a sharp inhale, pained and breathless. He expected cruel words or a harsh sneer, or perhaps even a goading smirk — but Grindelwald only had eyes for Pretty, his magic more than enough to silence and keep Newt at bay.

“Did I give you permission to do that?” Grindelwald asked. His face wore a smile, small and patient like a father. Familiar almost if not for the still quality of it, like a dark lake, unmoving just before a creature from its depths strikes.

“N-n-“

“What did I tell you to do, little love?”

“St— _aah!_ ” A squeeze when he didn’t answer quickly enough left him yelping, and then, “Stay on bed!”

Newt hoped that would be the end of it. An honest answer. But instead Grindelwald stilled, dreadfully furious, and all at once the fight seemed to melt from Pretty — eyes wide and horrified and locked on the man holding him so tightly.

Above him, Grindelwald nodded as though that was all he needed to hear and softly said, “Then you knowingly disobeyed me…”

“M-master, I—”

With a yank, Grindelwald began to drag Pretty from the room before the man could even finish his sentence. The magic smothering Newt lightened, enough for him to lean forward and shout, “Percy! No, Grindelwald! Don’t! Don’t hurt him, you bastard! Take me instead! _Grindelwald!_ ”

But his words fell on deaf ears and instead he had to watch as Pretty attempted to scramble along at his awkward angle, hands scrabbling at Grindelwald’s coat for mercy; leaving Newt with nothing but the sound of his own harsh breathing, the thunder of his heart and the haunting image of those brown eyes catching his as the door shut behind them.

He took three deep, steadying breaths and then began to thrash in his chains. Tugging and howling and kicking; reaching for any dregs of magic the chains might have missed. But they sucked him dry, leaving him to exhaust himself in his mortal flesh, useless and weak and unable to protect the man who kept him warm throughout the night.

He fell slack against the wall, tipped back his head, and whispered — rough and wrecked — “Damn it. _Damn it!_ ”

And when the words did nothing, he curled his naked knees into his chest, hid his face into their freckled shadows, and wept.


End file.
